


Don't Remember

by andsotheresparis



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Miscommunication, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsotheresparis/pseuds/andsotheresparis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That is always his plan. Buy them a drink and be back home again with his family but he never does it. He’ll drink too much the next few days, sleep the days after that, then maybe he’ll paint something.</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire, Marius, and Éponine remember but when Enjolras starts to recall the failed rebellion things begin to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to focus on a darker reincarnation au where the relief of being alive isn't enough to console the grief and guilt for Enjolras, being the leader and all. So this happened. No one dies in the present but there is blood and death, mental anguish and stress. Hopefully Enjolras doesn't seem out of character but I think there would be drastic difference between Enjolras growing up in nineteenth century France and Enjolras growing up in twentieth century New York. 
> 
> This first chapter is a bit short but if I add more chapters they'll be longer!

         He sits in the bar he rarely goes to, staring at the friends he never speaks to. There are only a few of them tonight. Enjolras is with them. Enjolras is always with them. He looks as beautiful as ever, the kind of beauty that causes a sharp pain in Grantaire’s chest, but he also looks tired. He works too much. Grantaire shakes his head fondly. Enjolras has always worked too much. He wants to go over there and pat his back. He wants to tell him to relax and hear him laugh and see that brilliant smile that causes Grantaire’s breath to catch. Most of all, he wants to hold his hand. He _needs_ to hold his hand. It’s the only thing he ever wants to do but he won’t. Just like he won’t come back to the Musain for another few weeks and he won’t buy the table a round of drinks. That would be an easy way to talk to them, to meet them although he already knows them. He won’t though, because he can’t meet them. He already knows them.

     That is always his plan. Buy them a drink and be back home again with his family but he never does it. He’ll drink too much the next few days, sleep the days after that, then maybe he’ll paint something. Sometimes he hates to paint but things make sense with a brush in his hand. Things make sense because he doesn’t have to think with a brush in his hand. He can see blood and hear screams without going crazy. Each heartbreaking, familiar cry and every gunshot that brings another friend down etches under his colors, brings life to his lines. When he stops painting, he’ll forget all his disgusting cowardliness and be driven by loneliness, by a longing for his friends, for his family, and he will be in the bar he rarely goes to, staring at the friends he never speaks to.     

     Today is different though. Today there is a scream. Grantaire looks to Enjolras first, finding only his fleeing back as he runs outside. He’s not as quick outside as his friends were but Grantaire gets there in time to see the girl trembling with Jehan's arm around her, the poet leading her inside. By the time he finds Enjolras a few streets down, the first punch is thrown and the blond is righteous with his hair askew and his shirt a little rumpled. The artist moves around the fight, staying close to the wall as he watches carefully. He flinches but he doesn’t move out of his shadow as Joly is tackled by a larger man. Bahorel is right there to pull him up and Courfeyrac shouts both encouragements and threats in the giddy voice Grantaire sometimes hears in his sleep. He smiles, but doesn’t move until a man blindsides Enjolras with a hit to the back of the head. The punch sends him in to a pile of empty crates by the trash because the blond was too distracted checking up on his friends.     

     Grantaire doesn’t remember moving and he doesn’t remember the hit, but he knows the passion behind the punch leaves the attacker on his back, dazed. Frantic, he turns to find Enjolras. His heart never does settle, nor does his breathing, but his initial panic calms at the sight of the blond sitting up, facing Grantaire, with an amused grin.     

     “That’s a wicked left hook you’ve got there.” He says, smiling from Grantaire to the man still on his back.     

     “You’re bleeding,” is all Grantaire can think to say. He wants to reach forward, rip open Enjolras’ shirt and press his ear against his heart to hear his heartbeat, to see the smooth expanse of his chest unmarred by bullets. He wants to wrap his arms around the man and protect him. The image of Enjolras standing there, pinned to the wall, bloodied and dead, flashes in front of Grantaire’s eyes but he is used to it by now and simply pushes it aside while this Enjolras, in front of him and although bloody not nearly as dead, simply smiles at him.     

     Enjolras curiously wipes fingers across his forehead, smearing red from a cut above his eye. He shrugs. “Just a scrape. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow than that guy will.”     

     Is that a joke? Grantaire shivers. It’s the cold, he tells himself, because it’s almost winter but he knows the chill is from the mere reality that he’s not only talking to Enjolras but Enjolras is smiling at him. Joking. The blond reaches out his hand to be helped up and Grantaire takes it because that is all he has ever wanted to do.     

     “Thanks,” says Enjolras with the same warm smile. Their hands are still together. “Can I buy you a drink? I’m sure there is a story about where you learned to fight like that.”     

     Their hands are still together. Grantaire stares at Enjolras’ hand in his own. His skin is darker than Enjolras’ and rougher but Enjolras is warm and although not soft, it’s a gentle hold. Their friends are around them and everything is right. Grantaire shakes his head. He takes a step back but doesn’t let go of Enjolras’ hand. It’s wrong. This is all wrong.     

     Enjolras is not gentle. These are not his friends. Enjolras is holding his hand, flirting, asking to buy a drink. It’s wrong. Enjolras is not gentle. Enjolras does not flirt. Enjolras does not drink. Especially not with him. Grantaire shakes his head. He pulls his hand away. He shakes his head and walks down the street as quickly as he can manage, looking back only once over his shoulder to see Courfeyrac ask Enjolras why he let his hero walk away without a drink first. Enjolras doesn’t respond. He only watches Grantaire, disappointed, and Grantaire has to turn away because that look is all too familiar.

\------------------------------------

  
     He scratches his forehead on the subway until his friend swats his hand away. They sit in silence for a few stops before Enjolras absentmindedly begins messing with the small bandage over his eye again. Courfeyrac hits his hand. The blond shoots him a glare without much vehement and his friend only smirks, so he goes back to pretending to read the case in his lap despite every nerve in his body itching to pull out those stupid stitches. The train stops at their station and together, the boys fight their way out on to the platform.     

     “Leave it.” Courfeyrac says sternly over an elderly woman’s shoulder. Of course Enjolras let her go in front of him. The woman looks at him and smiles. Courfeyrac smiles back, trying not to count the teeth missing.     

     Once they are out of the train and following the morning crowd toward the stairs, Enjolras complains. “It itches.” It’s not really a whine but close to it.     

     “Well, it’s not my fault you let Joly stitch you up when he was drunk.”     

     Enjolras stops short to look at his friend with his jaw open, his blue eyes sharp with anger and disbelief. “Yes. Yes it is your fault. I said I was fine. You worked Joly up until I had no other options.”     

     “That’s not how I remember it.” Courfeyrac’s attempt at a face of innocence is betrayed by the devious smirk that pulls at the corners of his eyes. He’s a terrible liar when it’s not to the police or a courtroom. The boy turns to make his way up the stairs, Enjolras following behind him still scratching at his forehead. He’s managed to dislodge the bandage and is dangerously close to the actual cut.     

     Above the subway station, a distinct _pop_ from a construction crew echoes down the stairs. Enjolras stops, closing his eyes to the overwhelming smell of blood and gunpowder. It’s familiar, almost comforting but his hand closes around air. His eyes snap open, suddenly desperate for Grantaire because there are more to come. On the other side of the stairs there is a boy with curly hair but the boy is too young and not Grantaire and there is another _pop_ and he has to take a step back from the force of impact on his chest.     

     Noticing his friend is no longer jogging up the stairs with him, Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder. A few steps down, Enjolras stands still. People push past him and drop choice words in their hurried frustration and yet, Enjolras doesn’t move. Courfeyrac ignores the people and calls to his friend.     

     There is another _pop_ and he can’t breath. Grantaire. Grantaire isn’t where he’s supposed to be. Grantaire isn’t with him. A forth _pop_ and his shoulders are falling backwards down the stairs. Maybe Grantaire got away. A fifth and he tastes blood in his mouth.     

     Courfeyrac’s hands grip his arms but it’s a bad angle to keep them up, so he pushes Enjolras against the wall, hard enough for the railing to leave a bruise on his back but secure enough where they aren’t tumbling down the stairs. He calls his name, screaming for him to breath but it’s hard to calm someone down when you aren’t calm so Courfeyrac isn’t entirely surprised Enjolras continues to hyperventilate.     

     The sixth and seventh _pop'_ s come in quick secession and he wants to double over from the white pain but he can’t because he’s pinned to the wall. He screams one last time before the final shot because this is all wrong. Grantaire isn’t there. Grantaire isn’t with him. It’s all wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> lesmisismyfavorite.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes up and Grantaire realizes he ran away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more blood and violence mentioned in this chapter, so just a heads up! Hope you enjoy!!

     “Enjolras?” Courfeyrac is calling. “Enjolras, please wake. Come on.”    

     Slowly, his friend’s face comes into view. There are three of them but Enjolras blinks a few times and it’s down to two. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs them, then opens them, and there is only one Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac who is smiling despite his clear worry. Courfeyrac who is alive.

     “About fucking time.” His friend says, hanging his head back to breathe a sigh of relief. Enjolras looks around, his heart heavy that Grantaire isn’t holding his hand. They’re sitting on stairs, his back against the wall and Courfeyrac’s hands supporting him, one on his shoulder while the other cups the side of his face where he was tapping for his attention. People watch them curiously but they must not be interesting enough because no one stops to help.    

     “What happened?” Enjolras asks.    

     Courfeyrac looks back at him and smiles a short, worried smile. “You had a panic attack. It’s okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Everything’s okay.”

     “Are you alright?” The blond asks, studying his friend with narrow eyes. Courfeyrac looks alright. There isn’t any blood on him and he’s smiling. There was a lot of blood last time he saw Courfeyrac. Blood, tears, and fear. A gust of wind brings Courfeyrac's brief cries up the stairs. Enjolras shivers against the sound because Courfeyrac is still smiling in front of him. It feels like a joke.

     “I’m not the one that passed out so outside of the small heart attack you just gave me, I’m fine.” He laughs. Courfeyrac doesn’t lie but Enjolras takes his friend’s face in his hands and studies it just to make sure. It makes Courfeyrac nervous enough to add, “Do you want to go to the hospital? Or call Joly or something?”    

     “No.” Enjolras says distracted. If Courfeyrac’s not dead, maybe his other friend’s aren’t dead either. Perhaps it was a bad dream. A dark omen. Foreshadowing maybe. He can speak to Combeferre about his concerns later. He’s always been a man of science and may have an explanation. First, he needs to make sure everyone’s alright. “Where is Prouvaire?”    

     “Jehan? Why?”    

     “Yes.” Enjolras struggles to his feet. He’s grateful for Courfeyrac’s assistance and says as much but when he climbs the rest of the stairs and realizes he has no idea where he is, he realizes he'll need more of Courfeyrac's help. Clueless, he’s always had a bad sense of direction, he turns to his friend. “Which way do we go? Where is he?”    

     He friend raises his eyebrows. “We're going to go to work.”    

     “We must find Jehan first.”    

     “We can see him after work. Come on, we are already late.”    

     “No.”    

     “Sorry?”    

     “No.” He says a little louder, thinking Courfeyrac must not have heard him. When he turns from where he was studying the street signs to see his friend staring at him, Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I must find Jehan first. Why are you being difficult Courfeyrac?”    

     Courfeyrac breathes out a laugh of disbelief. “I’m being difficult? You’re being weird.”    

     “Just tell me where he is. I’m worried and I’d like to know he’s alright.” It seems to be the right thing to say because Courfeyrac’s expression softens.    

     “He’s probably at work or something. Can’t we just call him?” Courfeyrac tries but Enjolras simply looks at him. With a roll of his neck and a sigh, knowing this is going to be a longer day than he’s prepared to handle with such little sleep, he concedes. This is the last time he goes out on a Tuesday. “Fine.”    

     The little bookshop Jehan owns is only about ten blocks away from the subway station but it’s in the opposite direction of their office. Not knowing why Enjolras is suddenly set on checking up on their friend nor how many friends they’ll have to see before he’s satisfied they’re all safe, Courfeyrac sends an email to Lamarque to warn him they’ll be late. He uses Enjolras’ panic attack as an excuse, knowing Lamarque has seen the blond have an episode before on the few occasions he’s actually lost control. The man will understand. Hopefully.    

     Courfeyrac sighs again, thinking about the hours he and Enjolras will have to put in tonight to make up for missing work today. Well, _me_ , Courfeyrac thinks. Combeferre would surely have Enjolras on lock down tonight after hearing about the attack and how bad it was this time. He rethinks the timeline after glancing over to Enjolras who watches the crowd around him with such fascination he stumbles of the edge of the curb.

     “You alright there?”    

     “Yes.” Enjolras says, a small, strangely amused smile on his face. However, his entire composure changes, straightening to full alert, his eyes locking in with a cop across the street, and his hand finds Courfeyrac’s arm. Whether it’s a nervous action or a protective one, Courfeyrac can’t determine. They pass the cop without incident, _like normal people do_ , but he doesn’t let go of Courfeyrac’s arm.    

     Jehan’s shop is a warm little building with dusted books and the smell of coffee floating around a clichéd crackling fireplace. The poet is in the corner and jumps when Enjolras shouts his name. His voice rings out in the small space, laced with the excitement worthy of seeing a long lost friend after years parted even though he saw Jehan last night.

     “Enjolras! Courfeyrac!” Jehan squeals. He shoves the books he was stocking gently on to the shelf and runs over to hug them both, Enjolras’ joy stretching across the room and encouraging a warm smile despite the bitter winter morning. Courfeyrac must wait for his hug as Enjolras holds Jehan’s face in his hands, studying him as carefully as he had Courfeyrac on the subway stairs. Once the greetings are done, Jehan steps back and looks questioningly at the two surprise visitors. “What brings you both here?”    

     “Someone needed to see you were safe.” Courfeyrac jerks his head towards Enjolras who is grinning madly with overwhelming relief. Jehan nods, smiling to the blond as if that makes complete sense before shooting Courfeyrac a bewildered look. The other boy only shrugs, hoping to convey his own lack of understanding.    

     “This is good.” Enjolras says mostly to himself, with a heavy release of breath. Turning in slow circles, he examines the room with his hands on his hips. Softly, he says again, “This is good.”    

     Jehan watches his friend study the collection of old books along the shelves, noting the straightness of Enjolras’s posture and his intense gaze over the titles before turning to Courfeyrac. “What’s going on? He has blood on his collar.”    

     “He had a panic attack today on the subway.” Courfeyrac explains quietly. “It was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Passed out for a few seconds and everything.”    

     “And the blood?”    

     “I think he bit up his mouth. That hasn't happened before.”    

     Jehan nods but his next question is interrupted by Enjolras’s excited exclamation from a spot in the corner of the shop where several books have appeared in his arms. “Jehan, what a marvelous collection you have here!”    

     “I think you’ve read most of these already, E.” The poet says after their friend joins them, showing off his great finds.    

     “I don’t believe so.” Enjolras disagrees. His voice is light but his face sobers as if suddenly realizing he’s gotten so giddy and he grows embarrassed. “We should go. We don’t have time for this.”    

     There is a sadness in his voice as he hands the books back over to Jehan. “Keep them, Enjolras. I have copies.”    

     “No thank you. There is no time right now. Perhaps after, should we be successful.” Enjolras says. The regret still clear in his voice despite his set face.   

     “After what?” Jehan asks, genuinely curious but Enjolras only looks at him like he’s being silly.    

     “We must find Combeferre.” Enjolras ignores Courfeyrac’s dramatic sigh and continues speaking, “We must discuss this. I’m concerned about a few of our plans. The danger is far greater and much closer than we are prepared for.”    

     “Combeferre’s at work.” Courfeyrac states as his hope that this was going to be their one and only visit vanishes.    

     Jehan exchanges a worried look with Courfeyrac, then tries to clarify, “What danger, Enjolras?”    

     “Combeferre got a job?” Enjolras asks with a disbelieving smile, ignoring Jehan’s inquiries.    

     “Combeferre has always had a job.” Courfeyrac tells him.    

     The smile fades. “No. He is a student.”    

     Courfeyrac shakes his head, as if attempting to clear through Enjolras’ own confusion. “No, he isn’t a student. He hasn’t been a student for two years. The only one still in school is Cosette.”    

     “Cosette?” Enjolras questions, then rolls his eyes. “The woman Pontmercy continues to go on about? Why is that relevant Courfeyrac?”    

     “The woman?” Courfeyrac has to collect his jaw from the ground. His heart is pounding faster at both his growing concern and frustration. “The woman- the woman he has been dating for the last five years? The woman who he’s planning on marrying? The woman whose apartment you helped him move to not three weeks ago?” Enjolras doesn’t seem to be listening as he heads outside. To Jehan, Courfeyrac whispers, “What the flying fuck is he doing? This isn’t a funny joke.”    

     “I don't know but you should probably go with him.” Jehan’s voice is soft and hearing the concern only confirms Courfeyrac’s own worry. “Seeing Combeferre may not be such a bad idea.”    

     Staring at the street signs with his hands on his hips, Enjolras offhandedly says, “The boy is a little frivolous, don’t you think?” When Courfeyrac doesn’t answer him, but simply stares at the blond in disbelief, Enjolras continues. “I apologize. I know you are close. I just don’t think he is dedicated to our cause. I believe he uses our meetings to pass the time between evenings with his woman. This Cosette. He’s a smart kid. We could use him if only his heart was in it.”    

     Courfeyrac looks from Enjolras to Jehan, who raises his shoulders helplessly. There is a loll in the conversation before Enjolras decides to go left for no other reason than the buildings look older that way and there are less people but at Jehan’s suggestion he turns quickly on his heels, eyes wide in fear. “Perhaps you can find Combeferre at the hospital.”    

     “Is he injured?” Enjolras asks urgently. Bayonets slash the air next to him and he flinches.    

     “No, he is volunteering. You know how good Combeferre is.” Jehan says, playing along with his friend’s strange behavior.    

     Courfeyrac catches up with Jehan’s plan and adds, “He’s always helping others but I’m sure he’d like to hear what concerns you have.”    

     Enjolras nods. “Yes. He’d also be glad to know that you are safe.”    

     “Sure. Alright. Come on, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac links arms with his friend and leads him down the street.    

     “Is Jehan not coming?”    

     “He’s working.”    

     “He is a student, too.” Enjolras says quietly, knowing he must be wrong again for Courfeyrac looks at him with the same confused and worried look he’s been wearing since he woke up on the stairs. Perhaps he hit his head in the last riot a bit harder than he realized. The Guard has been targeting him more fiercely lately. They must feel the fire stirring as well. Maybe he should also ask why he woke up on the stairs but the cars flying by continue to startle him and he must pay attention.

\------------------------------------

     Éponine watches her roommate as he saunters around the apartment in his boxers, her dark eyes narrow and suspicious. He does a little spin in his socks, turning from the coffee machine to the fridge, grabs the milk, then spins back to his cup.    

     “What did you do?” she asks.    

     He looks up, startled, but doesn’t flinch. By now, he’s used to her silent way of moving. She’s had many years to perfect the weight of her steps. Grantaire ducks his head, focusing more energy than necessary on pouring the milk. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”    

     “You’re whistling.”    

     “I’m not.” He says quickly and defensively but she only raises an eyebrow and he drops eye contact. Softer, he says, “I’m not whistling.”     

     “What did you do?”    

     “I didn’t do anything.”    

     “Oh my god! You did it, didn’t you?” She shouts, torn between anger and excitement. If it were up to her, they would have had this conversation with the other kids years ago and where she respected Grantaire’s need for time, she hated how long he’s pushed this. It scared Éponine how easy it was for him to change over night. One glimpse of that golden hair, one sound of that rumbling voice, a touch of that fiery passion and Grantaire drops his paintbrush and picks up the bottle with little more than a tear in his eye.    

     If you can’t find something worth holding on to in those memories, they’ll consume you. For Éponine, she learned to make her life different by doing almost everything the exact opposite. No more running from the police, no more starving nights, no more longing for a boy who’ll never see you. She isn’t going to be that poor and dirty street girl. She is going to save those girls, those children, and she was going to do it the right way with a law degree and a long, promising future with a man far from the likes of Marius Pontmercy. For Grantaire, it’s Enjolras.    

     Éponine loved Enjolras before because she wanted to believe him when he spoke of a beautiful future but she hates him for being the reason it’s so easy for Grantaire to fall back in to that life. One week he’s a highly sought after painter beaming proudly at his first gallery opening and the next he stays hidden in his room trying to relive every moment he’s had with Enjolras.    

     But she’s his best friend, his only friend right now, and for that Éponine can indulge his sadness and put up with his weekly mood swings with plenty of wine and a patient ear. It doesn’t mean she won’t encourage him in the right direction, though, because it can only help him. It might even save him. She plops herself on to the kitchen island, her head in her hands giddily. “What happened?”    

     “Nothing happened.”    

     “Don’t you dare lie to me, Grantaire. I will leave you in the street, sad and alone.”  

     He rolls his eyes but fails to bite back the smirk. Looking down at his coffee, watching the milk change the color, he smiles. Quietly, he admits, “I held his hand.”    

     “When? How? What did he say? What did you say? What happened after?”    

     “Calm down there, tiger. I’m not going to tell you anything if you interrogate me.” He says with forced patience as he pulls himself up onto the counter across from his best friend.    

     “Liar. But fine. The floor is yours, Monsieur Grantaire.”    

     She gives him time to find his words and as he does the giddy excitement he was so keen to call happiness sinks from his blood, leaving his chest heavy. Softly, as if just realizing it, he says, “I ran away.”    

     “Sorry?”    

     “I ran away.” He’s looking at the floor, his eyes wide in anger and forehead creased in confusion. “Why did I do that? I was there, he was there. He was smiling. You know the smile, that stupid dumb smile he does.”    

     “I don’t but that’s okay, keep going.”    

     “He was smiling and bleeding but he was okay and healthy and _alive_. And happy, god he looked so happy. He wanted to buy me a drink but I ran away. Why did I do that?” He looks up at his friend, pleading for an answer.    

     Éponine makes sure to not say all of her disappointed frustrations out loud. He doesn’t know about Combeferre yet and he can’t know about Combeferre until he has Enjolras. She keeps her face calm and gentle, but discouraging enough so he doesn’t think she’s pitying him. Pursing her lips, she considers the possibilities. “You’ve waited years for this, R. You got scared, it makes sense.”    

     “How the fuck does that make sense? I waited and waited and waited and finally when I have his fucking hand in mine I run away.” He jumps off the counter. His sock clad feet slip but he’s quick to pop himself back up. “That makes great _fucking_ sense, Ép!”    

     “Don’t yell at me,” warns Éponine although there is more empathy than anger. He is quick to drop his head and apologize. “Grantaire, don’t be so hard on yourself. If anything, this gives you an in. All you have to do now is decide if or when you want to take it.”    

     “Ép, that doesn’t make it any different than what I’ve been doing. Nothing. I’ve been doing nothing.” Completely defeated, he sinks down to the kitchen tiles, curling in on himself. She comes around and sits across from him. “I fucked up.”    

     “How long has this been building, R?” She asks. When he doesn’t take his head out of his hands she asks again, louder and more demanding in the same tone she uses to get Gavroche’s attention. “Grantaire, how many years since you remembered?”    

     He looks at her, then loses his nerve and looks away to study the cabinet. “I don’t know.”    

     “Yes you do.”    

     “Four years,” mumbles Grantaire.    

     “Four years. So calm the fuck down, take a few breaths, and figure out the next step.” She pats his face lovingly. “This isn’t the end of the world. We know the end of the world and this is far from it.”    

     The dark haired man looks up at his best friend, tears falling steadily down his cheek, and smiles. It’s quiet and peaceful in a way she’s almost never sees him look. In a soft, almost embarrassed admission, like he knows how it sounds, he states, “It’s the exact opposite.”  

     “See? All you have to do now is go to the Musain and he’ll buy you that drink.”    

     “And if he doesn’t?”    

     “Then you buy him a drink,” she says with a soft smile. Grantaire laughs, looking down at the floor between them before falling against her shoulder. She wraps her arms around his broad shoulders and ignores the quiet vibrate of her phone, apologizing for having to reschedule their coffee date, because Grantaire needs her.

\------------------------------------

     On top of his general dislike for hospitals all together, this building is far busier than Enjolras is comfortable with so he holds on to Courfeyrac’s elbow because his friend seems to know the way. It’s nearly lunch when they finally get there, Enjolras refused both to ride the subway and take a cab, but it gave Courfeyrac time to text Combeferre with a heads up.  

 **To: Combeferre (10:48 am):** On our way over. E had a panic attack on the subway. Being real weird.    

     Courfeyrac had wrote. It didn’t bother him that Enjolras read it over his shoulder but he grew uneasy when his friend asked him what he was doing. “Just letting Combeferre know we are coming.”    

     “How?”    

     Courfeyrac looked up at him. “A text.”    

     “Oh. Right.” Enjolras said, nodding slowly. “On your phone.”    

     “Yes.”    

     “On your iPhone.” He smiled as if he was proud he knew the term.    

     Courfeyrac laughed because he didn’t know what else to do. Enjolras had an iPhone of his own, an iPhone with a cracked screen that lives on his nightstand, but one nonetheless. “Yes, on my iPhone. Now come on, weirdo. Let’s get you an MRI.”    

     Combeferre is waiting in the break room quickly eating his sandwich and preparing to deal with a stubborn Enjolras. He missed breakfast due to a hectic car accident so he shovels in as much of his lunch as he can because Enjolras is a particularly bad patient and it will most likely take him the rest of his two hour break simply to convince him to go home and rest. There are no other treatments for his panic attacks. If he could, he’d take him home himself, make him tea and watch old movies and curl up on the couch like they did when they lived together but still has most of his twelve hour shift ahead of him and by the time he gets home, it’ll be the middle of the night. Maybe they can take a day off work next week. It was so much easier when they lived together.    

     When his friends arrive, he is greeted with the expected exasperated sigh from Courfeyrac but he really didn’t expect a formal handshake from Enjolras. Enjolras isn’t extremely affectionate but he tends to seek comfort after an attack, as they put him on edge. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are the only two he’s close enough with to be that vulnerable so the firm handshake and pat on the shoulder earns a baffled look. He thought he’d get a hug. It’s a bit of an unnerving start.    

     “Jehan is well!” Enjolras announces.    

     Combeferre nods slowly, looking from Courfeyrac, who points to Enjolras as if to say, _I told you so_ , and Enjolras himself who is practically beaming. “That’s always good to hear. And how are you feeling?”    

     “I am concerned about spies but that is a matter to assess later as we have work to do. I hear Lamarque is ill.” Enjolras makes himself perfectly at home at the small round table in the middle of the room. He finds a pad of paper and a pen from the mess of magazines and discarded lunch trays. With an excited breath, he exclaims, “This may be our chance to rally the people.”    

     Courfeyrac and Combeferre look at each other.    

     “Friends, sit.” Enjolras commands not unkindly but it implies no other options. “We have work to do.”    

     “Enjolras, I am worried about your stitches. May I take a look at them?” Combeferre asks. He sits on the edge of a chair to face Enjolras with a hand on his shoulder, silently demanding his attention. Something’s off that he can’t quite narrow down.    

     “Oh, this? Don’t worry, Ferre. It is nothing more than a scratch.” The blond touches the small bandage with the tips of his fingers but doesn’t look up. “Although it does itch,” he adds as an after thought.    

     “It wouldn’t take long for me to fix that.”    

     “It is nothing to-” Enjolras stops once he looks at his friend. His gaze dropped to the bloodied shirt. He swallows, paling at the sight and the smell. Iron gets caught in his throat. His bottom lip trembles and his chest grows tight. It gets harder to breath. The chair knocks over as he stumbles to his feet, still staring at Combeferre’s chest in fear.    

     “Enjolras?” Combeferre calls gently, standing up slowly. His brow pinches in concern. He shares a brief look with Courfeyrac, who looks as worried as Combeferre feels.

     There is blood running down his shirt, torn and ripped so it hangs off his body. His glasses are broken and blood spills from the corner of his mouth. Enjolras’ hands hover over his best friend’s damaged chest, wanting to reach out and stop the bleeding but too afraid he’ll make it worse. “What do I do, Ferre? Tell me what to do.” He begs softly.    

     “Just sit down and breathe, okay?” Combeferre says, bending to try and catch his best friend’s eye. “I can help but you need to calm down first.”    

     “There’s so much blood,” whispers Enjolras. Tears fill his eyes but they don’t fall. His useless hands scratch the cut on his forehead, still unable to look away from where the bayonet left slices in his best friend.    

     “There’s no blood, Enjolras. There’s no blood. Everything is okay. Everyone is okay.”    

     “No, Ferre. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.” Enjolras mutters. Blood is spilling from Courfeyrac’s stomach, staining his shirt and leaving a small pool by his feet where he stands. It grows wider and darker with each added drop, each lost drop. “Everyone’s dead.” He whispers in a voice so soft Courfeyrac almost doesn’t hear it.    

     “Enjolras, breathe. In. Out. Focus on breathing, then things get better, remember?” Combeferre instructs but Enjolras isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s clawing at his own chest, blood in his own mouth, tearing off his coat and ripping his shirt to get the blood off, backing himself into the wall. His feet are sluggish with blood and glass and broken stones. The smell of gunpowder burns his throat. Once he makes contact with the wall behind him, he screams a guttural sound that echoes in the room, in the hospital, through the years. Courfeyrac covers his face with his hands, tears falling as steadily as the blood. The scream leaves Enjolras breathless and he’s unable to regain control before he passes out, kept from the floor only by Combeferre’s quick hands.    

     “Get Valjean.” Combeferre demands, turning his best friend so Enjolras’ head is in his lap. The door swings open and Courfeyrac’s footsteps can be heard running down the hall, screaming for Combeferre’s supervisor. Tapping his friend’s face with one gentle hand and searching for a pulse with the other, Combeferre pleads. “Come on, Enjolras. Wake up. Wake up and tell me what’s going on. Wake up and let me fix it.”    

     Enjolras’ breathing is too quick to be productive and although he doesn’t wake up, Combeferre finds a steady, if some what frantic, pulse. Courfeyrac returns, followed by two nurses and Jean Valjean. The supervisor doesn’t dare remove Enjolras from Combeferre’s lap and the nurses respect the permission given to the boy. One shoots Courfeyrac questioning glances but she doesn’t say anything as she hands Combeferre an oxygen mask to place over Enjolras’ face. Working around Combeferre and asking him questions, Valjean measures the boy’s blood pressure and heart rate.    

     “What happened?”    

     “He had a panic attack. It’s his second one today.” Combeferre replies calmer than he feels.  _Just another patient_.    

     “Is that common?”    

     “No. He usually doesn’t have more than one every few months at most.”    

     “What about these stitches? Where are these from?” Valjean removes the white bandage, crooked from Enjolras messing with it. Added to the previous three inch gash are little red scratch marks from his nails digging at the cut.    

     “I wasn’t there when it happened.” Combeferre says.    

     They look to Courfeyrac. “He, um, he fell. Well got hit. Someone hit him and then he fell. A fight. It was during a fight.”    

     “Take a deep breath, Courf,” suggests Combeferre.    

     His friend obeys. He breathes several times, closing his eyes and running his hands through his hair. When he’s ready, everyone is patiently waiting. “We got into this little fight last night at the Musain. Someone hit him on the back of the head and he fell into these empty wooden crates but he seemed fine.”    

     Valjean nods, turning back to Enjolras. He lifts his head up and his fingers feel under the curls, searching for a previously unseen bump or cut. Finding none, he lifts off the mask and examines the inside of Enjolras’s mouth where flecks of blood dot his chapped lips and pale cheeks.    

     “He seemed fine.” Courfeyrac adds in a rush, but no one is looking at him anymore. “Joly even checked him out and said he was fine and you know how Joly is, Combeferre. If he thought there may be something even the slightest bit off he would have forced Enjolras to go to a hospital.”    

     “I know, Courf. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Combeferre smiles reassuringly at his anxious friend but the weight of Enjolras’ head doesn’t let him believe the confidence.    

     “I’m going to give him a light sedative and run some tests.” Valjean tells the boys but the nurses are the ones who move. The last thing Combeferre wants to do is drug Enjolras because he desperately needs to tell him everything’s alright, but he can’t argue because if this was anyone else that would be his first course of action and should it be a head injury, time is not on their side. _Just another patient_. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre watch him be wheeled away feeling heavy hearted and, perhaps worse, useless.    

     “You are his emergency contact, correct?” Valjean asks, resisting the urge to run after Enjolras but there’s nothing he can do until after the scans come through.    

     “We both are.” Combeferre answers.    

     “Good. Clock out. Head to the waiting room. You know what forms need to be filled out.” Valjean orders. The two boys nod but don’t move. They watch the door where their best friend just disappeared down as if it's all some joke and they're waiting for the punchline. “We’ll figure this out.”    

     Combeferre finds his composure and agrees, putting his hand on Courfeyrac’s arm and leading the other boy, still rambling about how Joly said he was fine, to the waiting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Combeferre don't know anything and Marius has one of those strange days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great comments!!

     “What do we tell people? We should tell people something, shouldn’t we?” Courfeyrac asks, tapping his phone where it rests on his bouncing knee. Next to him, Combeferre’s pen scratches across the thick collection of forms and questions asking about Enjolras because Enjolras is in the hospital. “Jehan’s asking what’s going on.”   

     “Tell them he’s in the hospital but we don’t know much else.” Combeferre says but he looks up to think before adding, “However, make sure you tell them not to come. He doesn’t need visitors right now.”   

     “It was just a panic attack though. Right? I mean this is normal.”  

     “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”   

     “What if it's a head injury?”

    “We’ll see how bad it is.”   

     “And if he’s sick?”   

     “We wait to see how we can help.”   

     “Is he sick?”   

     “I don’t know, Courfeyrac. I know as much as you do.”   

     “But I don’t know anything.”   

     “Exactly.”   

     “Oh.” A long, silent minute passes before Courfeyrac starts thinking out loud. “But then what was all that weird stuff about spies and blood? That wasn’t normal panic attack stuff, right? That didn't seem normal. Not like the other panic attacks he's had. He's never said shit like that before.”    

     “I don’t know," responds Combeferre distractedly. He doesn't want to think about what could be the cause if it's anything more than a panic attack. As it replays over and over again in his mind, he can't help but pull out warning signs of this disease and that illness. His best friend doesn't belong anywhere near those horrible diagnoses.

     “I’ve never seen him that scared before.” He says softly, fingers hesitating over his phone as he suddenly forgets his pass code. With a nervous laugh he asks, “You don’t think, he’s like, cracked it or something, right?”   

     Combeferre shrugs but doesn’t look up from where he’s scribbling down Enjolras’ family medical history. “If that’s the case we’ll handle it.”   

     He pauses and glances up when Courfeyrac doesn’t respond. The other boy is studying him with narrow eyes, phone forgotten entirely in his lap. “He’s not mental. I was kind of just joking. You weren’t though, were you? Why weren’t you joking, Ferre?”   

     “It’s a possibility, is all.” Combeferre curses himself because even he can hear the doubt. “He has tendencies and this is the age they’d manifest, if that’s what this is.”   

     “It’s not.” Courfeyrac snaps but asks despite his confidence, “But if he is?”   

     “We handle it. I have a spare bedroom so if he can’t be alone he can move in with me. Joly and I can work out our schedules so one of us can be around for him at all times.”   

     “Jesus! Have you planned this?”   

     “No. But if that’s what this is, he won't go to home or a hospital. He’d stay with us.”   

     “But he’s not crazy. He can’t be crazy. This is a panic attack or a head injury or both or something. Right? Enjolras can’t be crazy. He’s not crazy.”   

     “I don’t know, Courf.”   

     “Then why are you making plans as if he’s already been diagnosed?” Courfeyrac shouts.    

     “I’m just trying to be prepared for what ever may be the cause.” He explains calmly but the fear doesn’t let him take all the bite out of his words. Courfeyrac only shakes his head and the frown is so displaced on his usually elated face that Combeferre hates himself for not being able to comfort him and he know Enjolras would hate himself for being the cause. They grow quiet for several minutes, Combeferre’s pen scratching being the only noise between them.   

     “You said tendencies.” Courfeyrac says softly as if he had to work up the courage to ask. “What does that mean?”   

     When he answers, Combeferre puts the pen down and looks at Courfeyrac in the eye before catching himself because that’s how he explains dire news to patients families. Ignoring it, though, because his friend is as scared as he is, if not more, he explains with a sigh. “Some of the little things he does could indicate a more serious condition.”     

     “Like what? What does he do? I mean we joke and tease him about being crazy and all but what if he actually is? He never seems horribly bothered. Usually he laughs with us, but he wouldn’t know, would he? Crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy,” He trails off softly.   

     “Well, for example,” Combeferre says gently, “the intensity of which he gets focused on something could be-”   

     “That’s just passion." Courfeyrac interrupts. "That’s just Enjolras being passionate.”

     “But to the degree where he forgets basic priorities such as eating and sleeping? It could be just that but it could also be something else.” Combeferre puts a hand on his friends shoulder when he drops his head, eyes narrow searching the past for all the times Enjolras has seemed a little more intense, a little more obsessive, a little more neurotic than normal. “We shouldn’t worry about it before we have more evidence.”   

     Courfeyrac doesn’t look up. He doesn’t do anything but sit and stare and try to figure out what’s wrong with his best friend. It’s difficult with no medical knowledge outside of what he has learned at protests, riots, and fights over the years which doesn’t expand past _that cut probably needs stitches_ or _yep, that is definitely a broken bone_ but his only response is _Combeferre and Joly can fix it_  and they do. They always fix it. They can fix this. Whatever this is.    

     “Courfeyrac?” The boy startles to find Valjean squatting in front of him. “Are you alright?”     

     “Yeah. What? Yeah, I’m fine.” Courfeyrac shakes his head clear of Enjolras’ shouts. He looks around. Combeferre is watching him with the same concerned curiosity Valjean does.    

     Valjean speaks first, gently demanding his attention, before he has a chance to ask them about it. “Courfeyrac, can you tell me everything that has happened since the fight last night?”   

     “Is he okay? Can we see him?”   

     “In a minute, you both may, but first I need to ask a few questions. Is that alright?” Courfeyrac nods but doesn’t answer because he’s trying to pin point the moment they decided he was fragile enough to be spoken to so gently. He can’t be fragile, not until he knows Enjolras is going to be alright, but then once he knows that he won’t have any reason to be a nervous mess. “Can you tell me what happened from the fight last night up until when you brought him here?”   

     Courfeyrac nods and begins rushed and frantic to get it all out as quickly as he can because when he’s done he gets to see Enjolras. He tells them about the fight and the cute boy who ran off and how sad Enjolras seemed, which was weird because Enjolras doesn’t usually show if stuff like that bothers him, but Courfeyrac insists it makes sense because this boy was really attractive and he’d be sad too if he walked away. He repeats word for word what Joly had declared, admitted he may have been responsible for encouraging the stitches, and that they went home after that without incident. That morning they met for coffee and jumped on the subway, just making their train, like they always do. Only twice did Combeferre have to remind him to pause and take a deep breath.    

     “Joly cleared him. Joly said he didn’t have a concussion. Call him and ask, because I wasn’t that drunk. I would have remembered if it was worse than a few stitches. We would have called you Combeferre.”    

     “I know. I believe you.” Combeferre nods, smiling just enough to encourage his friend.   

     “He only got weird after the panic attack.” Courfeyrac says. “Well the panic attack was weird, too, but he was really strange after.”   

     “How was he weird?” Valjean gently prods with a purpose.    

     Sighing, because he really just wants to see his friend, Courfeyrac continues. He retells everything he can remember, from Enjolras insisting they have to check on Jehan to forgetting he has in fact read those books to his need for a meeting with Combeferre to discuss Jehan’s newly confirmed safety and the threat of spies.    

     “Good, that’s good Courfeyrac. Thank you.” Valjean takes the time to say before jolting down a few notes in the folder on his lap. As he does this, he asks Combeferre, “How frequent are his panic attacks?”   

     “Only one every couple of months. They aren’t consistent enough to be considered more than a casual nuisance.”   

     “Are there usually triggers? Direct sources or are they seemingly random?”   

     “He gets them when he’s extremely stressed out but I haven’t seen any of the signs lately. As far as I can tell he’s been eating and sleeping normally, well normal for him. He hasn’t been moody. Work has been normal. Les Amis meetings have been normal. There is nothing that suggests I should have predicted this.”   

     “You can’t predict everything, Combeferre.” Valjean says with a supporting hand on his young employees shoulder and Combeferre realizes he was talking nearly as fast as Courfeyrac was. The words leave his mouth the same time he thinks them and that’s dangerous because that means he’s not composed. For whatever the reason Enjolras is in the hospital for, Combeferre needs to be at his best if he’s going to be any help.    

     “As of right now, his brain scans are relatively clear.” The doctor pauses to smile at Courfeyrac’s full bodied sigh of relief but he grows serious for his next question. “Do you know he’s suffered a skull fracture?”   

     “What?” Combeferre gasps. “When?”   

     “Is that why he’s been weird?” asks Courfeyrac hopefully. A fracture, that can be fixed.   

     “I’d say about nine, maybe ten months ago.” Valjean says as he hands the folder over to Combeferre who snatches it out of his hands in such haste it bends the pristine papers. “I don’t believe it’s the cause. In fact, it healed fairly well for him not receiving any medical attention.”   

     Staring at the scans in his lap, Combeferre huffs out, “Stubborn asshole.”   

     “We would have known he was hurt that bad, wouldn’t we?” Courfeyrac asks wringing his hands together in his lap. “I don’t remember where he could have gotten hit that hard.”   

     “I don’t know.” Combeferre mumbles. He has to close the folder. Looking at the scar across the scan is making his stomach twist. “Can we see him?”   

     “Of course.”   

     “He’s not crazy.” Courfeyrac whispers to himself, unable to even consider that as an option. “He can’t be crazy.”   

     “I know.” Combeferre agrees, standing up to follow Valjean to the room Enjolras has been admitted to. The folder feels heavy in his hand, the clear brain scans keeping his heart down and he can hear the doubt in his voice again. Clean brain scans, meaning there is no concussion, no brain hemorrhaging, no tumor, no cancer that can be blamed for his best friends sudden strange behavior. _Everyone’s dead._

  
\------------------------------------

  
     Today is one of his stranger days. He trips over the smooth pavement, expecting cobblestone. He jumps when a car honks. Every police man flashes the blue of the National Guard and every homeless person sits in the mud and pleads to god for a gentle winter. The streets smell like horse shit and death. Marius longs for a father he never knew and yearns for an emperor abandoned. The anger is displaced at an old man so he calls his grandfather to see how he is and ask if he liked the book Marius sent him. The phone call ends with a chuckle and a promise to have Sunday dinner together. Things settle in his chest and the ground smooths under his feet until he catches a flash of red waving from a window and the smell of blood.    

     At the first alley he finds, Marius ducks behind the safety of the seclusion and closes his eyes. Leaning against the rough wall, he remembers. He goes through every day and every detail, clouded by his dreamy disposition. His meddling aunt and the kind Mabeuf. The uncertainty of homelessness, the delight that is Courfeyrac, the German and English lessons. He remembers every hole in his jacket, every growl of his empty stomach, every walk to the Luxembourg Gardens until he sees her. They aren’t in love yet but they will be and that’s enough for Marius.    

     The layers of her gown shed until she’s sitting on the bench in a little cotton dress, soft and shifting around her legs in the strong wind. She’s fighting her hair, desperately trying to keep it all back in the braid until she finally gives in and piles it on top of her head in a big, messy bun. Marius sits on the edge of the fountain, watching her, until finally she looks up and his heart starts beating again. He smiles. She smiles. He moves to sit next to her. Everything is right.   

     Behind his eyes a boy runs by, singing a song in a language he only dreams in. No more than twelve years old, he fits through the gaps of the barricade. Marius feels blood run down his face, feels the weight of the dead girl in his arms, chokes on the smell of gunpowder. He forces himself to remember the way Cosette’s hand is held in his own, how they fit together so easily. A taxi honks but he hears a cannon and he ducks. The last shot of the poet echoes behind him. Enjolras’ words. The inspectors shouts. His friends final cries.    

     Marius sinks to the ground. He covers his eyes and forgets about work, revolution, taxis, and death. He forgets about everything except Cosette because everything is wrong without Cosette. The apartment they share. Their anniversary dinner last week. Her grin when he insisted on cooking and her laugh as she ordered pizza while he clean up the fire extinguisher foam. The curve of her smile. The way she dances around their kitchen in the knitted socks Jehan gave her because the poet is alive and he knits no matter how horrible the end results are. Marius smiles. He thinks of the way she sings on the top of her lungs, completely off beat and out of rhythm but joyous and happy and so fucking beautiful in the streaks of sun that shines through their windows. The smell of her shampoo. Her laugh. His name on her tongue.

     His phone rings and it doesn’t startle him. Everything is right. Everything is right with Cosette. The call is Joly asking if he’s seen Bossuet’s keys. He hasn’t but he promises to look for them. Standing up, he studies his hands to make sure they aren’t shaking. After a deep breath he calls Cosette to say he loves her. He rolls his shoulders and turns back on to the smooth sidewalk towards their apartment where everything is right.

  
\------------------------------------

 

     “Did you hit your head a few months ago?” Combeferre asks from where he sits next to Enjolras’ bed. The file is open in his hands but ignored because Enjolras didn’t ask why he woke up in the hospital. Who doesn’t want to know why they are in the hospital? Enjolras. That’s fucking who. Combeferre forces himself to take a deep breath, calming and controlling the rising concern that is escaping as anger. He won’t snap at Enjolras until he knows the idiot ignored whatever is causing this in hopes that _it’ll just fix itself, Ferre_. If the idiot asks Combeferre to trust him, he might just smack him with his medical degree shouting, _show me yours and then I’ll trust you!_ It’s not the first time he’s felt the urge to do that to the blond and one of these days the stubbornness is going to get him a strong cuff across the back of his head.  

     Enjolras takes a large bite of toast, chews it thoughtfully before asking, “Is that why I’m here?”   

     “No. You are here because you worked yourself up to the point of passing out. Twice.” Combeferre pushes a cup of water towards his friend, silently commanding. When Enjolras doesn’t reach for it, he nudges it closer until it’s on the edge of his tray and Enjolras is forced to pick it up. “About nine months ago, you fractured your skull.”   

     Coughing on the water, Enjolras’ eyes go wide. “Really?”   

     “What happened?”     

     “I don’t really remember it.” He flashes a smile but it falls when he sees Combeferre’s completely sober face and Courfeyrac’s eye roll at the joke. He swallows, looking down to his hands. “Well you guys were visiting your parents for the holidays, I think.”   

     “Last winter break?” asks Combeferre, a pen flying across the page.   

     “Yeah. I went out with Bahorel one night and, you know, one thing lead to another. Next thing we know the cops got involved. We got away and I went home, slept for a few days, and felt fine. I thought it was a concussion, at most.” He looks up sheepishly. Combeferre’s expression is unreadable and it makes Enjolras nervous. Courfeyrac’s brow is furrowed in anger, his arms folded across his chest, but he doesn’t say anything. In the silence, their frustrated sighs are the only sounds. “I didn’t know it was that serious.” Enjolras defends himself quietly.   

     “Well it was.” Combeferre says and although he doesn’t regret his cold tone, it hurts to see Enjolras sink into himself at the words. All it takes is a quick reminder that Enjolras thought a skull fracture _just wasn’t that serious_ and his anger swells in his chest again. The way Enjolras bites his bottom lip tugs a little at his heart, though, so he softens his glare to a mere scowl. “You’ll be fine though. The fracture healed remarkably well considering you had no medical treatment.”   

     Enjolras only nods. He stares at his food, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, whether from the medicine or the guilt he can’t distinguish. He only looks up when Courfeyrac leans forward and places a gentle hand on his arm, calling for his attention. In a low, serious tone, Courfeyrac warns, “We can’t promise we can protect you from Joly’s examinations.”     

     His smile is as well timed and infectious as always and although neither Enjolras nor Combeferre laugh, they both smile and that’s a win in Courfeyrac’s book. The tension is thinner after his comment. Combeferre closes the file and with it his anger. Enjolras doesn’t continue eating, but he does finish the rest of his water without having to be told. The intern moves from the chair to sit on the bed next to his friend. “What’s the last think you remember, E?”   

 _Blood_ is Enjolras immediate answer but he bites his lip to keep from saying it out loud. _Fire. Smoke. Gunpowder_. His eyes flicker to Combeferre’s chest, then Courfeyrac’s before he finds his hands again. _Grantaire. Grantaire wasn’t there_. That's not real. _Grantaire is not real_ _._ Combeferre and Courfeyrac look nervous, scared even, so he says the last thing he's sure was real because he’s never been shot and he’s friends are alive. “The stairs. At the subway, maybe? Did I fall?”    

     “I caught you before you did.” Courfeyrac reassures him, squeezing his hand. The blond smiles, wanting to curl up in his arms for days, and apologize for how badly he must have scared him.    

     “Valjean wants you to take a few days off, then come in for a check up.” Combeferre says, bringing both of their attentions back to him. “You’ll stay at my apartment.”   

     “I can stay by myself.”   

     “We’re not sure of that yet.” Combeferre states evenly. There is no choice in the matter. Enjolras would be lying if he said it bothered him, that if being in Combeferre’s apartment with Combeferre didn’t sound a thousand times better than being alone. He smiles softly, gratefully, and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great comments! 
> 
> And a special thanks to my amazing beta! You're a gem :)

         Valjean gave Combeferre the rest of the week off and there are no words to express the gratitude he felt towards his supervisor. It defeats the purpose of having Enjolras stay at his apartment if Combeferre has to work twelve hour shifts. The doctor’s reasoning was simple and biased, a kind  _some quiet time together seems needed_. Valjean smiled and patted his shoulder in a strange, controlled way but Combeferre didn’t care enough to place. He and Enjolras had the rest of the week together, something that hasn’t happened since he was in med school. Despite the somewhat worrisome cause, Combeferre felt almost giddy.    

     The days go by quiet and slowly. They read books that have been sitting on their nightstands for weeks, start new movies but end up watching their same favorites over and over again, stay up late in to the night discussing documentaries and ordering take out from the same cheap Thai place down the street. They fall asleep on the couch and Combeferre makes pancakes in the morning and Enjolras makes the coffee. It’s pleasant, warm, leisurely, filling both boys with the heavy nostalgia that leaves them yearning for the days they lived together, making the lazy mornings and late nights easy to justify. Neither of them say this, cautious of breaking the spell even though it’s the same comfortable air they’ve always found together.    

     If they didn’t work on either sides of the city and work such absurd hours, they would still live together. Because Enjolras spends most of his weekends here, the guest is basically his, unless he stays at Courfeyrac’s, who lives just a few blocks closer to everyone else. Enjolras lives in the closest apartment he can afford, which is still too expensive and too far away from both work and his friends, splitting the distance evenly. Maybe if they sit down and do a budget, if they both sacrifice a little longer commute, if they play with the numbers and add Courfeyrac, they can find an apartment to share when their leases are up. Combeferre made a note to figure out a way to make that happen as he covered the blond with a warm blanket. Enjolras had fallen asleep on the couch early that Saturday evening with both the television on and a book across his chest. To let him catch up on the much needed rest, Combeferre moved to his bedroom to read. He must not have been aware of his own exhaustion, being so worried about his friend, and fell asleep with in an hour of Enjolras, the sun still shining through his curtains.    

     When he does wake up, his window is dark and his glasses are still on. He sighs, rolling to his stomach to stretch. A scream echoes through the apartment and he freezes. It sounds out again, then a third time with a cry on the end of his name. Combeferre doesn’t move. Not for a long time because he’s never heard anything like that before, he’s never heard anything that has physically hurt before. His first instinct is to shut his eyes and figure out if this is a dream because it’s pained and desperate and his best friend doesn’t sound like that but the scream fills the rooms again and he lunges off the bed. Enjolras is flailing on the couch, fighting invisible forces, then falls to the floor with the blanket tangled between his legs. He pushes himself up, only to fall again with his eyes shut and tears sliding down his cheeks. He’s screaming Combeferre’s name, shouting broken _no_ ’s and strangled pleads. His face is red, strained against the effort.    

     Combeferre drops to his knees, pulling Enjolras gracelessly into his arms. He whispers whatever sounds natural with his best friend sobbing against his chest. Things like _it’s okay, you’re okay_ and _you’re fine, I’m right here_. He doesn’t ask what the hell is wrong, he doesn’t yell that it’s scaring him, doesn’t scream wake up, Enjolras! He just rocks him gently, kisses the top of Enjolras’ sweat drenched curls, and stares at the couch where the pillows are stained by his tears and the fabric is crumpled from his fists against whatever fight he’s in.

     It doesn’t take Enjolras long to calm down, but as soon as he does, he’s pushing himself out of Combeferre’s arms. He falls to the side, hands scratching the wood floors. Combeferre watches, concern embedded in his pinched expression. He’s a few seconds from reaching out for him again but flinches back when Enjolras suddenly throws up. Violent, painful to watch vomiting that lasts a long time after his stomach is empty. His arms slump under him and if it weren’t for Combeferre’s quick hands, he would have followed to the floor.   

     Maybe it’s a virus. Combeferre considers, running through the symptoms, as he lays Enjolras back on the couch. Maybe they missed something, he thinks when he cleans up the floor. Maybe it’s nothing more than a nightmare, he tells himself before getting a glass of water and coaxing Enjolras to sit up. A nightmare that was so heartbreaking it made him physically sick. Hopefully it’s a virus.   

     “Drink some,” he commands gently, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Enjolras blinks at the water before taking it. He doesn’t drink right away, instead glancing up to Combeferre, then quickly dropping his gaze only to look back up.    

     “I’m sorry.” His voice cracks and strains against tears that still threaten. “I’m so sorry.”   

     “You didn’t do anything wrong,” promises Combeferre. He pushes a few buttons on the thermometer, then places it against Enjolras’ ear. “Drink some.”   

     It beeps and the number is normal. Combeferre purses his lips in thought, then does it again. This time the number is lower, only a few points away from 98.6. Still normal. After a quick smile to his friend he puts the instrument on the coffee table and presses his hands around Enjolras’ neck. His skin is cool from the drying sweat and Enjolras shivers, pulling the blanket higher up on his legs.    

     “I threw up.” He states. Combeferre nods, smiling softly, then moves his hands. “Am I sick?”   

     “Do you feel sick?”   

     He thinks for a minute, then says quietly, “My chest hurts.”  

     Combeferre moves to examine Enjolras’ chest, pressing gently under the sweaty shirt. “Could have just been a really bad nightmare. Do you remember it?”   

     Enjolras stares at him, his face unreadable. Something Combeferre’s never seen before. Never. Never in all their years together has he been unable to see what was crossing Enjolras’ mind. It’s terrifying, the space between them suddenly feeling like years not inches and it makes him feel sick. The blond swallows, dropping his gaze, then the cup. The water spills across his lap, drenching the blanket and the couch, splattering Combeferre’s knees. Enjolras curses, the word cracking against his tears.   

     Combeferre wordlessly picks up the cup and the blanket, tossing them aside. He only stops when Enjolras apologizes again. It’s different than before, softer, less forceful like he’s more embarrassed than afraid. It’s not as heartbreaking, more familiar. He tries to recall the emotions lacing his first apology to share with Valjean, but tear are falling down Enjolras’ cheeks and that’s not okay. Combeferre pushes the question away to pull his friend up. He brings him into his room and Enjolras doesn’t insist on the guest room. It gnaws somehow at Combeferre’s chest, layering bricks of concern. After he changed into dry pajama pants Enjolras crawls into bed and buries his head in Combeferre’s pillow. Combeferre promises to be right back, tucking the quilt above his friends trembling shoulders before cleaning up the living room.    

     He runs over the events of half hour, cataloguing the symptoms to give Valjean. _Fear_ , he realizes as the words echo in the back of his mind. That’s what it was, that’s what Enjolras’ words were broken by. The realization makes Combeferre sick to his stomach but he convinces himself it’s the lemon scented cleaning supplies as he crawls in next to Enjolras, wrapping his arms around his friend and trying to ignore the way Enjolras doesn’t curl against him but clings.  
  


\------------------------------------

     The blond’s head turned slowly on the pillow as he shifted uncomfortably in the bed. He stared at Valjean and tried to take in the room at the same time, taking deep, frustrated breaths. The doctor looked up from the papers in his hands long enough to smile, then continued filling out his ever growing medical file. Knowing Enjolras’ startling low tolerance for pain medication and the time it often takes before he starts talking, Valjean gave him the quiet time to wake up. He likes Enjolras as he likes most of Cosette’s friends. He’s loud and charismatic, intelligent and captivating. His words are encouraging and his smile contagious but in a calmer, more charming way than Courfeyrac’s elated grin. More than a few times the doctor has stitched him up, set a shoulder, tested for a concussion at home to avoid insurance papers. Only once was the tension thick and smiles rare as Combeferre berated Enjolras for the _unnecessary, vain fight that was based purely on your pride_ for the better part of an hour. Then it was Valjean trying to get the blond to smile but Combeferre was right and Enjolras spent most of the night staring at the floor.   

     In exchange for the doctoring in his off time, Valjean only ever asks for a Sunday dinner with everyone. He loves having the children around. It was a week after they moved to the city that Cosette met Marius and only a month later Valjean found his apartment full of young adults with bright smiles and loud voices. The man had froze, taking in each face as they grinned almost sheepishly for raiding his fridge and stealing his living room. Valjean only smiled and went to his office to work, making a point to keep his fridge fully stocked. Their voices still ring through the walls when they have time to stop by. It’s rarer as they get busier in their work, in their lives. Seeing Enjolras only reminded him that he misses their company. His apartment feels empty without Cosette in it. Maybe he can drop hints to her for another big dinner. It would be nice for that to become a routine. He’s not beyond being that selfish.

     “What did you do?” Enjolras asked, his voice heavy with the slowly fading sedative despite how small of a dose it was. It startled Valjean, sounding unfamiliar and unused. “What did you do to him?”   

     Valjean furrowed his brow. The heart monitor Enjolras was connected to beeped quicker in his growing distress as he shifted again on the bed. He put the file under his arm and moved closer to the bed until Enjolras leaned back, cautious and wary of the man, looking at him as one would a stranger who has you cornered. Concerned, Valjean took a respectful step back. The monitor didn’t calm and his suspicious glare didn’t fade. The doctor spoke softly, using a voice he would never naturally use around Enjolras. Soothing and placate. Enjolras doesn’t respond to gentle suggestions but stern commands with no room to argue because Enjolras can and will argue anything, and if you give him that opening he’ll usually win. Valjean’s grown close to him in the past years, but the distrusting stare from the boy forced him to reconsider his approach. “Who?”   

     “You. You know him, don’t you? Is that why you volunteered?” Enjolras closed his eyes, shifting again.    

     “Volunteered where?” Maybe this was confusion from the medication. Enjolras has never liked drugs, although Valjean thought it was the needles he disliked about hospitals. He usually squeezes his eyes shut when having to sit through stitches.   

     “You had a uniform but you aren’t a spy. Did you kill the spy? Is he why you volunteered?” His eyes were still closed, as if watching the hallucination as he tried to pick the information out. “Don’t tell Combeferre, but I hope you killed him.”   

     Valjean took a calming breath, ignored the fear that rose in his chest at the dark confession, and aimed for specific details to narrow down where his mind was. “Volunteer where, Enjolras?”    

     “The Rue de Villette.” The words rung off his tongue lyrically. He opened his eyes and looked around the room a second time. His blue eyes narrowed before something settled across his young face. Relief, Valjean thought at first, then perhaps acceptance. Understanding. It didn’t do much to quiet the warning signs flashing from Valjean’s medical schooling. “I feel sick.” He said suddenly. His voice sounded familiar. “Why do I feel sick?”    

     When Enjolras dropped his head to the pillow, eyes closing again but in a softer way this time, Valjean moved to study the heart monitor. “It’s probably just the medication.” Valjean told both the kid and himself. “You’ll feel better when it’s out of your system.”   

     “Where’s Combeferre?” He didn’t open his eyes but he asked again and again until Valjean squeezed his shoulder, braver with the familiarity in Enjolras’ voice.   

     “I’ll go get him. Just focus on taking deep breaths, okay?”   

     “Combeferre’s coming?”   

     “I’m going to get him.”   

     “Is he safe?” Surprised by the question, Valjean didn’t answer right away, and Enjolras lifted his head off the pillow. It seemed to take a great deal of energy. “Is Combeferre safe?”   

     “Yes. He’s fine.”   

     “He’s okay?”   

     “He’s right in the waiting room.” Valjean explained. Enjolras nodded, mumbling under his breath as he dropped his head to the pillow a third time. As he turned to leave a soft, lyrical _Merci Monsieur_ rang out in Enjolras’ voice and a shudder crawled down Valjean’s spine. He didn’t recognize this boy.

  
\------------------------------------  
    

  
     Enjolras doesn’t sit down, even when Combeferre gives him his impatient _you’re being stubborn and it won’t work_ look. His fingers itch and his feet tingle with anxiety and he can’t remember how to sit still so Combeferre will just have to deal with it. He paces in front of the bookshelves, pretending to study the titles, but instead measuring his breaths against the growing tension in his chest and trying to keep it as subtle as possible. Tapping his thumb and his middle finger together contains a fraction of the restlessness. He’s certain Combeferre notices, but it’s better than passing out. Again. And that possibility seems far closer than he’s comfortable with. There’s a chill that runs through his shoulders and as the minutes pass he can’t seem to shake the bitter cold from his bones. To excuse this he moves to stand by the window where a steady breeze of cool air seeps through the thin glass. It’s the coming winter, not the anxiety, not the nerves, not the smell and taste of blood. He bit his mouth again, he quickly realizes, and immediately wipes the back of his hand across his face to make sure Combeferre doesn’t notice it. He's facing the window, his back to Combeferre, but he's sure his friend is watching him.    

     Despite the tapping, the pacing, the chewing on his cheek till it bleeds, Enjolras still jumps when the door opens. His first instinct is to drop his head, avoid the scrutinizing stares, but he forces himself to look up and smile. It’s a warm, confident smile that has won court cases and destroyed corporations. Valjean narrows his eyes at the boy for a brief second before controlling his own face and smiling. He’s not as quick as Enjolras is. Catching the flash of unrestrained concern almost brings Enjolras’ eyes to the ground.    

     “Enjolras, how are you feeling?” The doctor asks as he sits behind his desk. There are no pleasantries past the friendly smiles and he almost respects their focus, if their focus were anything else other than himself.    

     Before answering, Enjolras turns his head away from the short rush of air that escapes from Valjean’s weight sinking into the plush chair. Something brushes past his cheek, ruffling his hair and smelling of steel. He blinks a few seconds longer than normal, trying to control himself because _nothing is there_. Causally, he leans back against the window sill and lies. “I feel good. Well rested.”   

     “He threw up Saturday night.” Combeferre tells the doctor. “After waking up screaming.”   

 _Traitor_. Enjolras’ jaw clenches. Both doctors look to him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to retract his statement. He doesn’t retract statements, never has needed to before, so he says, “It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten that much Thai food.”   

     “And the nightmare?” His friend asks skeptically.    

     “It’s was really spicy food.”   

     “Enjolras,” Valjean sighs. “If we are going to figure this out, we need you to be serious.”   

     “I am serious. I feel fine.” He states evenly, staring at the doctor. “There’s nothing to figure out.”   

     “You passed out twice in the span of two hours and you woke up screaming against something that was so bad you made yourself sick. Now, I know you didn’t go to medical school but does that really sound fine to you, Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, saying what Valjean wants to but is biting his tongue politely against because Enjolras will always listen to Combeferre better than him.    

     Enjolras almost licks his bottom lip in both thought and frustration before remembering the blood. Instead, he chews his cheek more violently. “It was irrational panic attacks and bad Thai food.”   

     “Enjolras, take a seat.” Valjean commands as he opens a file. The boy considers objecting but Combeferre’s anger is fueled by fear. _Fear for you, jackass_. Enjolras can play this better and he reprimands himself for not having enough control. He sits down for Combeferre’s sake but finds his feet are suddenly heavier than they should be, and the deep, measured breaths feel as if they’re tearing at scars on his chest _that don’t exist_. Maybe sitting down isn’t the worst thing. “Have you been having hallucinations lately?”   

     “Aren’t hallucinations seeing or hearing things that aren’t there but you think they are?” Like blood, cannons, smoke and bodies.    

     “Yes.”   

     “Then how would I know if what I’m seeing is real or not?”   

     “Don’t be a smart ass,” snaps Combeferre. “Something’s off and you feel it too.”   

     “There’s nothing wrong with me.” He says defensively, anger raising his voice because _there’s something wrong with me_.    

     “That’s not what I said and you know it.”   

     “Boys.” Valjean says with a slight raise of his voice. He gives both of them a stern look to remind them he’s in charge. “Enjolras, have you been seeing or hearing things that may or may not be real?”   

     “Not that I know of.” He lies. It sounds smooth despite the constriction in his chest and the doctor nods before writing in the file. “That’s quite a far leap, isn’t it? From panic attacks to seeing things.”   

     “Not as far as you’d think,” mumbles Combeferre. Enjolras shoots him a look but Valjean continues seamlessly.    

     “Have you been sleeping well? And before you ask, a steady eight or more hours a night is what I would consider sleeping well.”   

     Enjolras thinks for a minute, measuring the value in lying. “No.”   

     Both Combeferre and Valjean share a look, surprised by the answer. “How come?” Valjean asks, running with the symptom Enjolras will gives them. It’s a safer focus than the burn patterns on his hand.   

     “I wake up every few hours.” He ducks his head slightly, giving them a flash of embarrassment to admitting this to reinforce the lie. “I don’t know why. Saturday was the only time I woke up screaming that I can recall.”   

     In fact, he sleeps rather contently on most days when he has time for it. Only this past week has he had problems and that’s just because he’s worried about spies and holes in the barricade where grape shots are getting through. There aren’t enough stones and Le Cabuc is still bleeding despite his dead eyes. Courfeyrac’s horrified screams as he clings to their fallen friends, the pounding on locked doors, and the child’s song fills the air around him, stealing his breath and forcing him to his knees. Jehan is on the wrong side of the barricade, Javert is deceiving them.  _Can the volunteer be trusted?_ Grantaire’s hand is not in his own and Combeferre knows he’s going to die, but is not ready for it with that tragically thoughtful look behind his glasses. They look at each other and know. They know that everyone is going to die, _and for what?_

     “Enjolras?” Combeferre asks with a hand on his shoulder. He looks up from his lap, the room suddenly quiet, and sees his friend is standing in front of him, head tilted in concern. Enjolras doesn’t think it’s the first time his name was called. Valjean’s brow is knit, studying him in that careful, doctor way but Enjolras looks to Combeferre. There’s fear behind his glasses but it’s selfless, more concern than terror. It makes him smile with relief.   

     “Yes?”   

     “Are you okay?”   

     “Yes. I’m just tired.” It’s not a lie anymore. He looks back to his hands in his lap, swallowing blood and bile. Combeferre sits back down but his hand doesn’t leave Enjolras’ shoulder. If he focuses on the touch, the force of the cannons seem softer, the blood fades to a dull pink haze across his vision.    

     “Has work been more stressful than normal?” Valjean asks gently. Without looking up from his lap, Enjolras shakes his head. He misses the look between Valjean and Combeferre but he can sense the growing tension in the room. It’s ignored in favor of focusing the warm touch of Combeferre’s hand. “Relationship problems?”   

     “No.”   

     “How are things with your parents?” 

     “Why is this relevant? I’m just tired.” The weariness in his voice reaches his own ears and Combeferre squeezes his shoulder.    

     “We just want to make sure everything is okay.” How can Enjolras argue with that when he sounds so sincere?   

     “My parents and I are fine. They’re in Greece, I think.”   

     “Anything that may be causing extra stress?”   

     He shrugs. “I don’t know.”   

     The room falls quiet. The only noise comes from the scratching from Valjean’s pen across his file. Enjolras looks up once to glance at his best friend, returning the reassuring smile with a forced twitch of his own. “Enjolras,” Valjean says softly. “I’d like to run another series of tests, both blood and brain scans.”   

     “What’s wrong with me?”   

     “We’re not sure anything’s wrong yet.”   

     “Then why the tests?”   

     “Just in case there is something causing the panic attacks, we can catch it early. Perhaps do something to prevent them.”   

     “I can't afford them.”   

     “Maybe I can talk to Lamarque. Or at least keep it under the radar for now.” Valjean promises, standing up to walk them out. He notes the way Combeferre keeps his hand on Enjolras' back and the way Enjolras leans in to the touch. “Until then, go home and rest. Take it easy. Try to sleep. If you think of anything else that may be useful call me.”   

     He nods, thanks the man quietly, and watches his feet pass the smooth tile under his feet. Combeferre's hand stays on his back, a steady comfort and it's frightening how grounding that is. When they walk outside the sudden rush of freezing air hits his lungs with the force of a firing squad, but it's refreshing. The ringing in his ears disappears and the pain in his chest fades to a quiet ache.    

     “Why don't you come back to my place?” Combeferre suggests, startling him out of the relief the cold winter brings him.   

     “Can we see Jehan on the way?” Enjolras asks. Combeferre looks at him and Enjolras can hear the pained surprise constrict in his friend’s chest, the worry and unspoken concern loud on his face. He doesn't care. He should, but he doesn't. “Can we go see Jehan?”   

     “Of course.” Combeferre says with a tight smile before searching his best friend’s face. “You’d tell me if something was wrong. Right?”   

     Enjolras glances to their feet, then back up to his best friend. “Of course, Ferre.”   

     They both hear the lie but don’t say anything about it. Combeferre nods smiling weakly. He keeps the fear at bay by wrapping an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and Enjolras focuses on the smooth ground beneath his feet.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius has dinner plans and Combeferre has a lunch date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long between updates! I should get more regular!

     Marius pops his head in to Courfeyrac’s office, not bothering to knock despite his friend balancing his phone against his shoulder, a pen in one hand and a highlighter in the other while he tries to talk around the caps in his mouth. He looks slightly flustered and incredibly irritated but when he spies Marius, he grins and waves him in with a jerk of his head that causes him to drop the phone. After a quick curse and an even quicker  _fuck you_ to the other line, he hangs up. The sharp clatter of plastic echoes in his rather impressive office and once it dies, he smiles proudly at his friend.   

     “Your people skills never cease to amaze me.” Marius smirks, leaning back against the wall next to the door.   

     “Well Marius, when you get to the position I’m in, you have to be stern. Stick to your convictions.” He props his feet on to the desk. The action knocks off several files but he goes unbothered by the mess.   

     “We’re both associates.”   

     “That’s only because you skipped grades.”   

     “And yet we are in the same position.”   

     “But I have the nicer office.”   

     “It’s not nicer than Enjolras’.” Marius comments casually. He pretends to scrutinize the sleek black desk, the large glass fish tank embedded in the built-in shelves that brings a warm, colorful pop to the modern furniture, and the floor to ceiling window behind him. Marius had a fish tank but accidentally killed all of the fish. Twice. Once learning just how much those particular fish cost, it seemed fair that he lost that privilege. “His view is even nicer.”   

     “Well that’s because if he asked Lamarque would drop to his knees for the kid.” His bitter tone is balanced by the bright grin on his face. Marius smiles in return, shaking his head at the horribly crude image of their managing partner. “Come sit down, Marius.”   

     Despite the warm invite and his usual routine of stopping by at the end of the day, he’s only a few minutes away from seeing Cosette. “I’m on my way out actually. I just wanted to make sure you were coming tonight.”   

     “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”   

     “And there are no plus ones.” He adds as he moves to step out of the office. Courfeyrac’s loud protests pull him back. His friend looks offended but the lines around his eyes are creased in a hidden smile. Marius raises his eyebrows when he challenges, “If you can tell me the last name of the girlfriend you brought, you can have a plus one.”   

     Courfeyrac narrows his eyes, trying a few silent names before guessing, “Marie?”   

     “Mike. But good try.” He turns to leave again before changing his mind and asking, “Is Enjolras still here?”   

     “Yeah.” Courfeyrac says distractedly. “Are you sure it was Mike? I could have sworn it was a girl.”   

     “You’re probably confused because he wore a dress.”   

     “Oh, that’s right.” A smile crosses his face, pulled between admirable and carnal at the memories. “I liked Mike.”   

     It’s not something Marius wants to get in to without a few drinks so he tries to end the conversation before it sparks any real fuel. “You said E is still here?”     

     “Yep. We’re walking home tonight so I’ll collect him in an hour or so.”   

     “Okay. Good.” Marius sighs in relief but immediately wants to take it back when Courfeyrac’s eyes narrow suspiciously. It’s subtle but the tension in the room thickens and Marius bites the inside of his cheek because apparently _that’s something we just don’t talk about._    

     “Why is that good?”    

     It’s a trap, defense of Enjolras, of his best friend and Marius knows he should never speak of doubt about the blond. Especially to Courfeyrac without solid evidence. It’s not his place. It’s not anyone’s place outside of Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Although he could argue passing out twice, admission to the hospital, several brain scans, and no clear results could be evidence enough. Not solid enough, it seems, for Courfeyrac. He wants to say this, to say that he’s worried and wants to help but Courfeyrac’s shoulders are straight and no matter how much he knows the Irishman likes him, he knows how much the Irishman loves Enjolras and it will never equal the same. No matter how many lives they live. Instead, Marius says, “I want to remind him of tonight.”   

     Courfeyrac nods, accepting the cover up but drops his feet to the floor because he knows exactly why Marius sighed at someone walking home with Enjolras. Maybe it is enough. When Courfeyrac asks him the time again, Marius considers mentioning it. “Do we need to bring anything?”   

     “Cosette has it all planned out but if you want, we can always use more wine.” Marius tells him with a smile. When his friend only nods, dropping his attention to his desk as if he was only asking as a formality, he walks back in to the office and closes the door behind him. Courfeyrac looks up to him, eyes narrow but hopeful that Marius will ask him something nervous and rambling about Cosette or a current case. “Come on, Courfeyrac.” He says instead, sitting in the chair to let his friend know he’s here for a serious conversation and the other man’s jaw clenches. “He passed out twice. We can’t just ignore that.”   

     “It was just a panic attack. It's happened before.”   

     “The side effects have lasted this long before?” When Courfeyrac doesn't answer Marius says, “So it hasn't happened before. Not like this.”   

     “Nothing’s wrong with him.”    

     “That’s not what I'm saying.” Marius sighs, trying to calm his friend and settle the constriction in his chest because the fear in Courfeyrac’s eyes means he saw something that they weren’t told about. “We can help. We can figure out what’s going on.”  

     “There’s nothing going on.”   

     “But if there is, Courf, we can help.”    

     “He doesn’t need help.”   

     “He was late twice this week because he got on the wrong subway line. He’s been distant and forgets vital details on cases we’ve been working on for months. He looks exhausted, frantic even. Have you ever seen Enjolras frantic before?”   

     “We all have those days.” His voice is tight.   

     “Look, I’m not saying that anything is wrong, just that if something is we are all here for him. I’m here for him and it only hurts him if we ignore it.”   

     “Even if something was wrong he wouldn’t go to you,” snarls Courfeyrac. Marius’ breath hitches in shock and Courfeyrac’s falls as if he was the one that was snapped at. “Shit. Fuck. Sorry. Marius, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”   

     “It’s okay.” And it is. Marius smiles reassuringly, trying to ease his friend’s guilt but it doesn’t seem to help. “When my dad died I went through some seriously weird shit and I didn’t have anyone to go to. It ended up in a cross-country move just to figure it all out. He has all of us. That’s all I was trying to say.”   

     Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, calming and control his growing emotions. Sometimes Marius forgets his sharp temper, the Courfeyrac who was as angry as Enjolras with a tendency to light things on fire. Marius would almost prefer fighting Enjolras over Courfeyrac who has snapped, although the fire doesn't last nearly as long this time around. “I meant that with Enjolras you have to wait for him to come to you. If you push it, he’ll pull further back. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant.”   

     “I know.” Marius stands up, smiling at his best friend. He’s not mad, he can never get mad or offended or upset with Courfeyrac. Not when he’s going to be Marius’s best man. Not when he’s alive. Very few things are worth a fight. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do. See you later tonight?”   

     “At eight?”   

     “At eight. And no plus ones, Courf.” He shouts on his way out. Marius doesn’t close the door so he can hear Courfeyrac’s warm chuckle as he walks around the corner to Enjolras’ office. He waits until the sound fades before knocking because he always knocks on Enjolras’ door. The familiar voice calls him in.    

     Enjolras looks up from the papers on his desk, pen cap in his mouth and ink staining his hands. He drops the cap, catching it before it can drop on the desk without looking away from Marius and smiles warmly. “Hey, Marius. Come on in.”   

     The younger man sinks in to one of the chairs opposite of his desk as Enjolras stacks a few of the papers together. He ignores the way Enjolras puts the notepad he was writing on at the bottom, making sure it can’t be seen, and studies the familiar office instead so his friend doesn’t realize he caught that. Per request, there is no fish tank and instead are more shelves stocked with well loved titles and annotated law books. Pictures of his friends litter his always cluttered desk and sit on top of the few piles of books by the wall length window that don’t fit on the bookshelves. It’s bigger than Courfeyrac’s and still feels warmer with the personal touches of someone who lives here part time. “How’re you doing, E?”   

     “I’m glad it’s Friday,” admits his friend as he leans back in his chair.   

     “Oh, man, tell me about it. It’s been a long week.” Marius agrees, grinning madly at the warm chuckle he responds with. “You still coming tonight?”   

     The blond narrows his eyes in thought. “To?”   

     “To our place. Cosette wants to thank everyone for helping us move in.”   

     “Didn’t we already do that?”   

     “Yeah but she likes that we can invite people to our place. It’s just an excuse to have everyone over.”   

     Enjolras smiles, knitting his brow a little before nodding. The amusement in his eyes at Cosette’s enjoyment in something as small as a simple pronoun is a drastic contrast to the stern, intense leader with little time for small pleasures. It makes Marius sigh in relief, in a settled, content kind of way because Enjolras' life seems simpler this time, his burdens easier to manage. Well, up until the last few weeks. It would be some fucked up irony if he’s given this gentler life only to lose it inside his own mind. Enjolras shouldn't have to fight any more. “I’ll be there.” Enjolras tells him, still smiling warmly. “Should I bring anything?”   

     “She has it all planned out so all you have to do is come with an appetite.”   

     “What time is it again?” He asks after a laugh.   

     “Eight.” Marius says, knitting his brow as Enjolras writes it on the back of his hand to remember. It sits between a phone number and a statistic of some sort. That’s new, Marius notes, but he leaves it at that when Enjolras catches him staring. The blond quickly drops his gaze, as if he hadn’t realize he was doing that. Marius hopes his smile is warm and easy as he stands up. “See you later tonight, E.”     

     “Hey Marius?” calls Enjolras, almost shyly before Marius is out the door.   

     “Yeah?”   

     “How long have you two been together again?”   

     “Five years.”   

     Enjolras nods as if doing the math. His eyes are narrow in a complicated form of concentration. It’s a look normally seen in the conference room while building a case or during the meetings before a protest. Not when thinking of the details in someone else’s relationship that he should already know. “Right. And you’re going to get married?”   

     “Well I have to ask her first but hopefully.” He says with a laugh, running a hand through his hair. It doesn’t matter how many times you ask someone, proposing is terrifying.    

     “Oh, right. Of course.” The blond smiles and nods, then takes a deep breath to build the confidence to ask, “Did you guys meet in school?”   

     Marius feels his smile fall and quickly sets it to something neutral. Making a note that this is just one more detail Enjolras is forgetting, he shakes his head and answers evenly. “In Central Park.”   

     “And you love her?”   

     It’s a strange question to hear from Enjolras. Strange enough to send French commands through his ears and a flash of that steely gaze watching the minute pass before pulling the trigger. It takes him a few breaths for the images to fade back to the eager blue eyes studying his face. “From the day I met her.” The emotion in his voice can be blamed on the nature of the question.    

     Smiling that gentle smile, that look that means he is completely, truly happy simply because a friend is happy, Enjolras says, “Good for you.”   

     “Thanks.” He responds shortly, swallowing his fear. “See you at eight?”   

     “Of course.” Enjolras digs out the notepad he was originally working on as the door closes. Marius doesn’t see the French words littering the page or the statistic that mimics the number on his hand. The quickly written _93_ , shaky lines caused by the trembling hand that wrote it. Ninety-three students counted on June sixth. Of 1832. It’s the only date that matches the details of his nightmares. _Not that it means anything_ , he tells himself each night as he lies awake. Marius doesn’t see the cuts on the inside of his mouth, the raw nails, the hours of saved classical music for when the dying screams get too loud. He doesn't know Enjolras had three noise complaints before investing in a pair of large and expensive headphones that nearly bankrupted him and still don't keep the familiar voices out but only make him miss his alarm. That he takes steaming showers that burn just to get back the smooth, scarless chest or the way his hands seem to shake all day and all night and even in the shower he can't get them to stop. Marius only sees a confused friend struggling to keep the details of his life together, not the effort it’s taking to keep the facts from his other life at bay. He sees the gentle smile and the easy laugh caught behind exhaustion and stress.    

     Instead of going home to kiss his beautiful, loving girlfriend, Marius finds the apartment empty except for a note on the fridge. Apparently, they’re not only out of flour but olive oil, sugar, and pasta as well. He sighs and takes the time to open up the file hidden deep in his bottom desk drawer. On a private browser, one that won’t record his searches, he looks up Grantaire’s name. Finding nothing, yet again, he looks up Enjolras’ symptoms. Before he can convince himself his friend has brain cancer, he reminds himself the scans were clear and closes the file. After a few measured breaths, he opens it back up and studies his notes.    

     Originally, after meeting Courfeyrac and Bossuet, and coming to the conclusion as subtly as he could that they didn’t remember the barricade, he assumed only the survivors knew. Meeting Cosette’s father nipped that theory in the butt, only making the older man suspicious of Marius’ understanding of social norms until he dropped the strange questions and personal inquires. He stopped asking questions, stopped leaving quiet hints, stopped worrying and proudly bit that bullet if it meant his friends didn’t have to wake up in a cold sweat, if they didn’t have to know all the blood that was lost. He still looks for his last friend, the last part of his family but that’s as far as he digs anymore. It’s easy to ignore the gunshots when the cries are replaced with laughter.

  
\------------------------------------

  
     “Hey! Hi. Sorry I’m late.” He apologizes quickly, kissing her cheek in greeting before sinking to the chair opposite her. “Sorry I’m four weeks late.”   

     “That’s alright. I just hope you have an entertaining excuse.” She teases as she tries to bite back the dizzying grin. Her skin still tingles where his lips were. To keep from pulling him in to a deep, longer kiss, she reminds herself of Grantaire but a different face flashes in front of her vision. There’s more than one reason to take this slow.   

     Combeferre laughs, widening his eyes a little as he shakes his head. Focusing on unfolding his napkin in his lap, he forces himself to answer lightly. “My friend is sick. Or something.”   

     “Or something? What does that mean?” Any show of frustration fades with that comment. Aiming for casual, he misses his mark and the slight strain in his voice leaves her head tilted to the side in sympathy. The dark shadows under his glasses are easier to see in the restaurant light, the heavy questions in his eyes pull his smile to something closer to a small grimace. That kind of worry doesn’t belong on his handsome face, on his kind face. Maybe she can fix it. She can certainly try.   

     “That’s a really good question.” He rests his arms on the table and sighs. Calmer, breath steady now after the rush to get to the restaurant and the complicated month he’s had, he smiles at her. A real smile just for her. It makes everything easier. “Hi.”       

     She grins. “Hi.”   

     “I missed you.” He admits.   

     “I missed you.”   

     “This past month has been too fucking bizarre for my taste.”   

     “Is everything okay?”   

     “Yeah. Yeah, I think he’s just stressed out. Maybe fighting a virus or something. Who fucking knows.”   

     “Who is it?” She asks with a tilt of her head in concern. Usually she avoids asking about his friends because it's inevitable that he'll want them to meet her. If Grantaire doesn't step up his courage before that she'll be forced to choose between a future with Combeferre or a month long vacation to avoid it all. She’s always wanted to see California.   

     “Enjolras. He gets panic attacks every now and then but this has been a month long anxiety attack or something. I don’t know. It’s been really weird. Nothing I’ve dealt with before. I don’t know what’s going on so I don’t know how to help him.” He shakes his head, taking another deep breath, then reaches out to hold her hand. “He’ll be fine, though. Enjolras will always be fine.”   

     “You’re cursing a lot.” She comments with a smile.    

     “It’s been a long few weeks,” confesses Combeferre. He doesn’t talk about Enjolras the rest of the lunch but he apologizes a few more times and he continues to intertwine their hands at every opportunity. Despite Éponine’s attempts to split the bill, he simply asks if it’s okay for him to pay _because I'd like this to be a date_. She can’t argue with him after that. All she can do is try to keep from swooning. She’s never been one to swoon but with him her head fills with warm, dizzying air. Before they part, she caves and kisses him. Cautious to an extreme, it’s the first boy she’s kissed in this life and it’s nothing like she remembers it, nothing that frightened her at eight years old. His lips are soft and his hands don’t leave hers. It’s gentle and smooth. There’s no teeth, no hair pulling, no ducking in to the woods to take more. Just like the movies, it leaves her breathless.    

     Combeferre has to run to catch his train but his smile is obviously as giddy as she feels and that’s something even better than all the flutterings in her chest. He likes her. He maybe loves her. He thinks about her at night, calls her when he has bad days, runs halfway across the city just to squeeze in time with her. Éponine walks home in a cloudy daze thinking about how much he says he thinks about her.    

     When she walks in to the apartment, fear hits her stronger than the stench of metallic paint. She knows, if she were given the choice, that she’d choose Combeferre. Her smiling roommate who laughs at her dreamy disposition has no idea that she’d leave him. That she’d force him to make a decision he’s been avoiding for over four years now. Confront Enjolras or be alone. The pain that follows this realization is almost more than she can bear and she leaves him to take a shower so he can’t hear her cry.   

     It’s under the hot water that she runs through the entire lunch date with the handsome and kind Combeferre who thinks about her. She remembers everything he said, every smile, every laugh. She remembers how her hand felt so secure in his, how his thumb tapped against her skin when they fell in to a comfortable silence. It’s under the hot water that she remembers it was Enjolras who’s sick. Or acting weird. They don’t know what’s wrong yet. Combeferre didn’t offer many details and Éponine didn’t ask but now she regrets it. Because maybe it's all coming together.        

     Stumbling out of the shower, she throws on clothes without drying off. It earns her a concerned look from Grantaire but she speaks before he can question her about it. She rushes out her words, running over until she’s standing just in front of where his feet dangle off the counter. “I think he might remember! Grantaire, I think he remembers.”   

     “What?” He asks with a mouthful of cereal, not bothering to put his four o’clock breakfast on hold just yet.   

     “Enjolras. I think Enjolras might remember.” The name pauses Grantaire’s spoon halfway to his mouth like an old cartoon as he stares at her dumbly. Slower, she repeats it, trying to keep her excitement from her voice because she didn’t think about how he’d react and she really should have. “I think Enjolras might be remembering.”   

     Shaking off the shock and dropping the spoon, he swallows his rising bile and aims for casual denial. “How could you know that?”   

     “Combeferre said he’s been acting strange lately. Something about anxiety and panic this past month. And last month you held his hand.”   

     They don’t talk about that. Grantaire hasn’t gone back to the Musain but he’s sat on the opposite side of the street for hours. His friends haven’t been by lately. He’s been drinking more and much to Éponine’s frustration he hasn’t painted since then. One gallery has contacted him about a show but he’s ignored it. She’s doing her best to keep them interested yet _he’ll be available soon_ will only gain a few weeks, at most. He stares at her, unable to see all she does for him with that name echoing awkwardly in the apartment. “Combeferre said?”  

     She cruses herself because she didn’t think this through at all. Resorting to the truth, she explains, “He was the doctor at the clinic I took Gavroche to a few weeks ago. Gav had an update to check his arm out and he looked stressed. I asked and he vented a little.”     

     After a long study of her face, Grantaire drops the food in to the sink and slides off the counter. He’s biting his cheek in thought. “Why would you think he remembers?” He asks quietly, not looking up until after the cracked words leave his mouth.   

     “I don’t know for sure.” She shrugs, grateful he accepted that explanation. “Just that, it sounds like there is no other reason or cause for his strange behavior lately. That and the timing works out.”   

     “Fuck!” Grantaire shouts suddenly. The forcefulness that he spits out the word causes her to flinch. He says it again and again, hands threading through his hair as he paces short circles around the kitchen.   

     “Take a deep breath, R. Calm the fuck down!” She commands sternly until he turns to her. The tears in his eyes surprise her. She really should have thought this out.   

     “Fuck, Éponine! This is bad. This is really bad.” He says in between hyperventilating breaths.   

     “No, this is good!”   

     “No! It’s bad. It’s really, really fucking bad.” He repeats louder, leaning a little towards her either to emphasize his point or to seek comfort she can't tell. Either way she stays back, wary of his frantically shaking hands.   

     “He’d remember you. He’d remember his friends.” Éponine tries for a smile.    

     “He’d remember that he killed all of his friends.” Grantaire corrects. The words cause her to flinch again. “That I passed out drunk until the very last shots. That all the blood is on his hands and I was right. Who would want to remember that?”   

     Éponine doesn’t have an answer. Grantaire storms in to his room, slamming the door hard enough to make his bowl jump in the sink. Enjolras has his friends, he doesn’t need to remember. Nothing comes from remembering. Nothing would come from Combeferre remembering and Éponine would do anything to keep those bloody images away from that incredibly kind man. Maybe Enjolras is just fighting a virus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras tries to remember where he got these shoes, Marius catches on, and Grantaire pleads for denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great comments and kudos!

         Enjolras rocks on his feet. Putting all of his weight on his toes for a few seconds, focusing on the pull forward, then to his heels and fights the drag backwards. There's a conversation around him, mostly between Marius and Courfeyrac as they argue lightly about one thing or another. Bahorel’s voice echoes in every so often and Combeferre’s chuckle next to him floats above his head in a warm symphony of sounds. Enjolras ignores it outside of the simple comfort the voices bring him. It’s steady and familiar and he latches on to the easy rhythm. Someone teases and another feigns offense. He jumps at a sharp smack before realizing it was just Bahorel patting Marius on the back.  _Not the pounding on a wood door_. They’re alive, he reminds himself and he goes back to breathing steadily through his nose.   

     He should listen. He should pay attention but he’s distracted. As long as panic stays away from their voices, he knows everything's okay. Still, Enjolras doesn’t participate because he can’t remember when he bought these boots. Two-tone brown shoes with thick brown laces and a slight upturn of the toe. They’re worn and scuffed, stained by the salt from the winters and clearly well-loved. They fit him, the sole molded to his foot. Where he got them, when he got them, he can’t recall. He does, however, remember a pair of tall black boots worn thin by years of riding in the rain despite his father’s warnings. _Those aren’t real_. He swings his boot, his brown boots, along the subway platform focusing on the sound of the leather scraping against the rough concrete because he’s never ridden a horse before.    

     The answer never comes so he looks up before he goes mad trying to remember. The subway is crowded on the platform opposite of their own, that train soon to arrive. He watches a baby kick her chunky legs against the stroller. A hip bumps his and he looks over to see Combeferre smiling at him. Enjolras returns it, leaning a little more in to his friend and staying there, turning back to watch the baby. He should pay more attention just for Combeferre’s sake because Combeferre knows something’s wrong. Thankfully he doesn’t see the way Enjolras studies street corners, trying to determine which would be the best location for their stand, or the way he’s starting to memorize the size of the police force because he seems more capable on focusing there before he realizes what he’s doing. A flash of black passes the stroller, then disappears behind a pillar. Enjolras takes a step closer, squinting his eyes against the dark tunnel and the fluorescent lights.   

     “Enjolras?” Combeferre calls, following his friend’s narrowed gaze and sudden focus. The blond doesn’t hear him. He sees that green, a sleeve maybe, then it disappears again behind the stone. The possibility, the chance, the brief fluttering of his heart in hope pulls him closer. Combeferre calls his name again and he sounds concerned. Enjolras only takes another step closer. He should pay attention but sometimes it’s easier to listen to the cannons and that scares him. His two-tone brown boots cross the yellow warning paint and his friend puts a hand on his arm.   

     “Grantaire?” Enjolras calls suddenly. He says it again and again, getting louder and drawing more attention with each scream.  _Why can’t he hear me?_ Combeferre calls for his own attention, louder to counteract whatever is distracting Enjolras closer and closer to the train tracks.  _Is he hurt?_ He can't remember where he told Grantaire to be, where his position was but they are surrounded, they are hopeless. It doesn't matter where he is because if he's behind the barricade, he's dead. They're all dead. There is a flash of inky curls, those soft, black curls, and it only lasts a second but Enjolras’ heart swells around the aches in his chest. “Grantaire!”     

     Plan, thought, desperate desire flashes before his vision, glancing toward the stairs, then back to the pillar Grantaire is behind. Without thinking twice,  _because Grantaire is right there_ , Enjolras jumps down to the tracks. Gasps echo in the subway. His friends screams fill the air around him, stealing his breath. He shuts his eyes against the noise, willing it away but it doesn’t work. They only get louder, closer, more wretched. They’re scared, dying, dead. There’s a hand on his arm, pulling him back but he shoves it away, slipping through the poles that keep the trains separate, faster than Combeferre can reach out for him again. He’s right behind him, the blond can feel his footsteps on the tracks. Enjolras quickens his pace, not because Combeferre will stop him but because Combeferre shouldn’t be in the way of a train. The platform is just a few feet above his head and Enjolras jumps, easily grabbing the edge. Strangers pull him up. He turns to see the strangers help Combeferre up as well, waiting until his friend’s gray shoes cross the right side of the yellow warning paint before sprinting to the pillar, to Grantaire. His feet stutter to a stop, jaw trembling. The scrape of his shoes against the concrete echoes in the silent tunnel.   

     “No. No, no!” He shouts at the empty space. Panic swells in his chest. He circles the stone, then the others on the platform. He runs halfway up the stairs, then back down. Combeferre stays on his heels. “No. Grantaire!” He screams louder, more frantic, his shoulders bending under the weight of his own voice. Shaking hands run through his hair. He looks around, spinning on his heels, boots scraping across the concrete, people jumping out of his way, watching him like they watch the news. Their phones are out, hoping he'll jump in front a train again and they'll all have a life long story to tell with feigned sympathy and played horror. Enjolras feels tears running down his face but he ignores them. Under his coat, his shirt, along his warm chest scars rise and ache, daring him to breathe steadily. “Do you see him, Ferre?”   

     His friend, always next to him, shakes his head slowly, sadly. There’s fear in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”   

     The double meaning in the words leaves Enjolras cold. A shuddering breath brings him painfully close to collapsing. He looks around again, across the platforms. Faces bleed together, none of them familiar. The train arrives, the sudden force, sudden screech of metal on metal brings a rush of blood to his ears. He flinches against the unfamiliar surge of air. Combeferre’s strong hand hooks under his arm, pulling him back over the yellow paint. Enjolras lets him, gratefully, and drops his eyes to his toes to push away the shriek of the small girl getting run over by that brown horse with that white streak between it’s eyes. The creaking of the wagon, the casual glance of the driver before looking back to the cobblestone road ahead of him. He closes his eyes and turns in to his friend’s chest, burying himself and crying just as he had with his father when he was eight and blood filled the street, splattering across his black riding boots.

\------------------------------------

  
     No one seemed to notice Marius stop in his tracks at the sound, at the name, laced in fear and despair. The others run past him, up the stairs and around to the platform where their friends now sit safely. Enjolras clings desperately to Combeferre, wrapped in his arms. Marius can hear his muffled cries across the platforms. The doctor shuts his eyes against frightened tears.   

     Grantaire. Grantaire, meaning Enjolras remembers. _Maybe it’s a name from school_ , Marius considers hopefully. It’s not. It can’t be. Enjolras wouldn’t jump in front of two trains to get the attention of an old classmate. To get to the man he died holding hands with, Enjolras would run in front of a hundred trains. Marius knows this because he would only forget a risk such as that if Cosette were the one just out of reach.    

     Slowly, several steps behind his friends, Marius climbs the stairs. His chest constricts and he can’t figure out if it’s from fear, empathy, or happiness. If Enjolras saw Grantaire, then maybe Grantaire is here. Maybe Grantaire is home. The cynic is the last member of their family, their last missing friend. Everyone is safe, everyone is home. Everyone is far away from France and blood and death. Marius’ shoulders rise with a swell of relief, of joy! They’ll all be at his wedding, patting his back and dancing with his wife. Marius can see them get married.   

     But to lose Cosette! Marius’ heart aches. It’s identical to the crushing sadness that filled his soul when Cosette was lost to him before the barricade. To live again, to remember again, and not have that hand in his. Oh, Enjolras! The suffering. The loneliness. Marius picks up his pace with the sudden urge to collect Enjolras in a hug, to take away the pain of an empty hand. He pauses between sets of stairs. Marius is nothing to Enjolras when Grantaire is out of reach. The boy looks around, scanning the crowd until the flash of a face catches his eye. A silent moment passes between the two, brown eyes studying blue. Marius tilts his head and Grantaire takes a step back. He looks to Enjolras, seen down the stairway, then back to the artist. The man disappeared and Marius follows, his stride slow and cautious. Wary of what years can do to a man. He’s a step in to the hall when hands grip his jacket. Grantaire slams him almost gently against the wall but with an angry pressure. Angry and sad, Marius can see. The tears that were hastily wiped away leave stains on the man’s sleeves.   

     “Grantaire.” He whispers, a dumb smile growing across his face. “Grantaire!”   

     The artist shushes him, covering his mouth with his hand. “He can’t know.”   

     “What?” The word is muffled against the calloused hand and Grantaire drops it. Marius can’t be sure but there might have been an amused smirk twitching his lips before falling grave again.   

     “He can’t know.”   

     “Know what?”   

     “He can’t know it really happened. He can’t know I’m here.”   

     How many years? Marius thinks. How many years has it be since they’ve talked, since they’ve shared a drink and a laugh? How many years since he’s seen Enjolras smile in that warm way the blond has, the _soft_  way has of doing that’s new in this life? This gentler life where they finished school and will start families and _live_. Where they'll all grow old. Has he seen it at all? How happy they can be together in this life!

     “Why?” Marius asks, suddenly angry at the man for knowing but not being at Enjolras’ side as soon as he saw him. Right now, it doesn’t matter that Grantaire remembers, that Enjolras remembers, that he’s not alone. Right now only Enjolras jumping train tracks and collapsing in grief matters because in this life, Enjolras laughs more. Enjolras jokes, he indulges, loves and Grantaire is not there to see it, to be a part of it. Enjolras spent his blood for the people and now he deserves an easy life. He deserves to be loved as he loved his country. What is the point of it all if they don't learn? If they aren't rewarded in this life?

     “He can’t know it happened,” is all Grantaire says. “Please, Marius? This is all I ask of you.”               

     “He jumped the train tracks to get to you.”   

     “Combeferre was right there.”   

     “But you’re not.”   

     “Combeferre will protect him.”  

     “He jumped the train tracks to get to you!” He repeats, viscously, leaning against Grantaire’s hand keeping him on the wall.   

     “It’s better than remembering it all.”   

     “How could you say that?” Marius shoves himself free, then pushes Grantaire. “How could you leave him alone?”   

     “Because what if he tries again?” Fear brings tears to his blue eyes. Marius flinches back as if he’s been shot. This seems to hurt more. The red hanging from the window, his friends lined up in the street, the pull of his stitches as the wounds heal and the scars grow. “What if seeing me,” Grantaire continues, “remembering me, confirming it all leads to him trying again? To him trying to do it right this time?”   

     Marius is quiet. He steps back, not dropping his hands but loosening his aggressive hold to something softer, friendlier. His years with Cosette are lovely memories, faded and blended together with lace and emails, horse carriages and taxis. The years building up to the barricade are what hit him with the tragic force of dead friends, wasted lives. His friends died but never left, haunting him when he slept, when he ate, when he breathed. “It’s different now,” is all Marius can say because maybe it’s not. Maybe Enjolras will try something again. Marius can’t go to another friends funeral. He can't survive the grief again.    

     “The world may be different but Enjolras isn’t. He’ll land himself in the hospital or jail.”    

     “You’re not even going to give him the chance?”   

     “The chance to what, to die again?”   

     “To prove you wrong. Enjolras is smart. He’s sensible.” Marius defends, thinking of the well planned protests and the fiercely fought court cases. “He fights with the law, Grantaire. He knows what he can get away with and what he can push.”   

     “Nineteenth century Enjolras can’t survive here. He can’t win here. You can keep him safe, Marius, if you just don't let him know. Don't let him figure it out. You know how it is. The memories will fade, he’ll grow past them. He doesn’t have to know.”   

     “He thinks he’s going crazy. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are already concerned. He’s had brain scans. This can all go away if we just tell him.”   

     “We all thought we were going crazy at first.” Grantaire says. He thinks of Éponine saving him from losing it completely and Marius thinks of Cosette’s hand in his own. “It gets better in time. It gets easier to ignore.”   

     “But why not tell him and just keep him from doing something dumb? You heard him, he’s desperate to find you.”   

     “If Enjolras knows,” Grantaire shakes his head, picking this track because fear seems to be a powerful motivator for Marius. Guilt doesn't cross his mind, doesn't fill his blood because there is too much fear for Enjolras’ memories and too much shame in his own. “If Enjolras knows the biggest flaw in his revolution was that the people didn’t join, imagine what he could do in this day and age with the global communication. Imagine what he can do with the resources at his fingertips today.”  

     "I don’t like it. It’s wrong.”   

     “Give me time. Give Enjolras time to move past it. Please?” Grantaire takes both of Marius’ hands in his own as he pleads. Marius bites his bottom lip. He doesn’t know the Enjolras from the barricades as well as Grantaire would. If it were Marius begging to protect Cosette, he would hope for Grantaire’s understanding so he nods, slowly and reluctantly but he agrees nonetheless. “Thank you. Thank you, Marius.”    

     “Wait!” He calls, keeping hold of Grantaire’s hand as the artist turns to run. “Can we get coffee or something?” Quieter he adds, “I miss you.”   

     A soft smile grows on his scruffy face, easy and gentle and Marius remembers that smile as it landed on Enjolras in the fire lit Musain. Grantaire glances to their conjoined hands, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”    

     He takes a marker from his bag and scribbles a number on the inside of Marius’s forearm. When Marius looks back up from where he was pulling down his sleeve, careful not to smear the ink, Grantaire is gone.   

     A hand lands on his shoulder and Marius jumps. Courfeyrac’s face is carefully controlled but his eyes are watery with unshed tears. He’s scared. Marius wants to take his hand and tell him it’ll be okay, that Enjolras will be okay but the horror in Grantaire’s eyes makes him question that possibility. Behind him, Combeferre has a hand around Enjolras’ arm, leading him slowly through the crowd. Bahorel walks on the other side, a hand on the blonds’ back. Enjolras’ face is hidden from where he’s watching the tips of his boots as they move. After clearing his throat, Courfeyrac forces a smile to his friend. “We’re going to walk.”   

     “I think that’s a good idea.” Marius says as he falls in to step with his friends. The numbers on his arm burn this close to Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius and Grantaire get coffee. Courfeyrac has a crush on Jehan, Combeferre's on edge, and Enjolras has not read this book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I'm not super happy with this ending so I'm going to work on it. However, it's been ages so I wanted to post this. Thank you for all the great, amazing, wonderful, encouraging comments and kudos!

         “This is like meeting someone on online.” Marius says with an awkward laugh. He wraps his hands around his mug in order to keep from grabbing Grantaire's. The man was nice enough to let him get away with a two minute hug and where Marius thought that maybe, there was just a little bit of relief in its return, there was more reluctance from the artist than delight. It's enough to make him cautious.   

     “How so?” The artist asks after a sip of his own coffee.    

     “Well our nineteenth century selves are like our outdated profiles. We’re the same person but time has us living different lives. What we know may not be true anymore but those pieces and memories still exist, you know?”   

     Grantaire laughs, raising his eyebrows briefly and dropping his gaze to the table. “Sure. I guess.”   

     The short response is enough to sober Marius from the giddy joy at finally finding Grantaire again. Marius isn't the same and neither is Grantaire. There's no telling what to expect. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then smiles calmly. Quietly, he comments, “You look different.”    

     “It’s my nose. I learned to protect my face at a younger age this time around.” At the joke, a sincere smile finally softens the familiar face. Maybe he’s just nervous about meeting or worried about Enjolras. Grantaire looks like he’s gotten about as much sleep as Enjolras has lately. His black hair is a mess above his blue eyes where it looks like he tried to tame it with a few quick brushes of his hand. Marius notices his eyes are void of the glassy haze of alcohol which makes the dark sleepless circles under them easier to see. “You look better fed.”   

     “I didn’t run away this time.”   

     “So your relationship with your grandfather is better?”   

     “It’s great. It’s one of the best things that came with remembering.”   

     “And you’re,” He clears his throat, looking down at the table between them. “You’re with that girl, that Cosette?”  

     Marius tries to restrain his grin. “We just moved in together.”   

     “That’s great. I’m really happy for you Marius.” It sounds heartfelt and a quiet minute passes where they subtly study the stranger across from them. Both take in pieces of each other, all so different than what they dream about. The healthy tan on Grantaire’s skin, the confidence in which Marius smiles, their clean clothes and dirt-free faces. Grantaire doesn’t think about the last time he saw Marius but the smells of the wooded Musain fill his lungs and the jest thrown around him as the boy gushed about the angel floods his ears. It’s the last joyful moment of that life, the last time he was happily surrounded by his friends, his family, so he doesn’t shake his head clear of it.   

     Tears of happiness threaten to build as he realizes Marius has a chance to live with her. He moved in with her! They’re going to have children, a mortgage, photo albums filled with ridiculous memories of their friends that they’ll try to explain to their children. They could even have a cat. Enjolras may secretly love their cat but for some reason it wouldn’t like him and he may quietly pout as the fluffy animal sits in everyone’s lap, purring loudly, except his own. Does he walk home at night with Combeferre asking _why doesn’t it like me?_ Would he look up how to make friends with cats?    

     “What about you?” Marius asks suddenly. Across from him, Grantaire jerks his head back from the window he was studying, not realizing he had drifted away from the conversation. His friend is smiling but there’s a hint of worry underneath it. Grantaire reminds himself that he doesn’t want to be distant, that he doesn’t want to push Marius away. If he can’t have his whole family, he’ll take what he can get. Otherwise he would have moved to a different city and he wouldn’t walk past Enjolras’ apartment like the obsessed, desperate man he is. To Marius, he smiles softly, tears still threatening. His friend only reaches out and squeezes his hand, short and quick but valued by Grantaire nonetheless. If he could, he’d clutch on to the connection. “What have you been up to?”   

     The artist shrugs, easing back into his seat as he pushes that life away. Everything fades except the bright light in the corner of his eye and he knows it’s Enjolras. That’s okay. He can keep Enjolras there for now, he tells himself as if he has a choice. “I’m in grad school.”   

     “What are you studying?”   

     “Art.”   

     “So you're still painting? That's great! Have you had any success?” Marius leans forward over the table as if his enthusiasm is propelling him closer. It fills Grantaire's chest with a strange kind of warmth.   

     “Some small gallery openings.” He shrugs. “A couple of commissions. Nothing big.”   

     “Are you kidding? That’s amazing, R!” Marius gushes honestly.    

     A wide grin spreads on Grantaire’s face because no one has called him that in nearly two hundred years. He shrugs again, aiming for casual because it’s not as fantastic as his friend is building it up as. “It’s not much. Just enough to pay for school.”   

     “I never saw the work you did back then but is it similar?”   

     The question surprises Grantaire. “I guess so. A little less rigid, though.”   

     “What do you paint?”   

     “A lot of things.” He looks down to his hands, wanting to shut down this focus. When he paints it’s easier to breathe but when he paints his friends die again and again and again. Marius looks too much like an eager puppy, wanting more, needing more from him. Grantaire can only pretend he doesn’t need the same thing for so long and Marius will only be here for so long. He doesn’t want to go back and paint and drink. He doesn’t want to pass out alone anymore. “Once I remembered and figured it out and all, it got a little darker. Naturally.”   

     “I’m sure they’re beautifully heart breaking,” Marius says softly, honestly. Grantaire wants to laugh him off but he can’t find the sound, not with the images of the paintings that fill his room flashing around him. So much red and black paint has dripped to the floor, the wood looks naturally stained like that. “I’d love to see them.” Marius tilts his head to the side, smiling a little as he says, “You know who else would love to see them?”    

     “Marius, please.” _Don’t do that. Don’t bring him up yet._ He wants to beg him to keep it simple, he wants to run away, he wants to ask a thousand questions about Enjolras. Is he healthy? Is he happy? Is he still fighting? Grantaire isn’t sure which answers he’d prefer. He wants nothing more than Enjolras to be happy, except maybe for him not to remember because how can he be happy if he sees his friends dying at his feet? If he’s happy, Grantaire’s not part of the reasons. If he’s fighting, well Grantaire can’t imagine Enjolras not fighting. Enjolras always fights, no matter what the odds are against him. Grantaire just drinks until he can’t see the odds anymore. A drunken brawl, a brain tumor, the monarchy. How is he going to kill himself in this life?   

     “All of your friends.”   

     “They’re not my friends anymore, Marius. I don’t know them. They don’t know me.”   

     “You're a fucking idiot,” Marius snaps but his smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it softens and since when is Marius the one to laugh wisely and endearingly at his friends? “Just because they don’t remember you doesn’t mean they don’t still love you.”   

     “It’s not about that,” he lies a little.   

     “Then what’s it about? Why won't you face him?”   

     _Because I’m a cowardly piece of shit_ , is his first answer. _Because when everyone was dying, I was sleeping. Because the last thing I did in my life was plead to Enjolras to take me with him_. Marius is watching him carefully, giving him the time. He bites his bottom lip, trying to force the mental anguish out into physical pain. Grantaire looks out the window. He needs reassurance that Marius still agrees with him. “You understand why we can’t tell him, don’t you?”   

     “I think it’s wrong to keep him in the dark. To not give him the opportunity to prove you wrong.” Marius thinks about adding,  _you know how much he wanted to prove you wrong_  but decides against it. The cynic’s words of how they're going to fail ring out in dark alleys filled with wine and tobacco, sweat and sex. He only voiced those doubts when Enjolras was out of earshot, often after the blond had left and Grantaire continue to drink away his loneliness. Marius didn’t see how alone he was, even with all of their friends surrounding him. Who does he have now?    

     It wasn’t until Marius remembered Cosette, until he read the history books, studied the poems, spent hours at night recalling each and every detail he could, that he truly started to understand his friends, to understand the courage in Jehan, the light in Courfeyrac, the sadness in the artist. That was the kind of misery that only comes from great love. A love that’s different than dreaming of a future together, it’s different than lust or desire. It’s not a yearning or a longing. It’s a need. It’s a belief system stronger than any church can build. It’s an unrealistic faith set on the shoulders of one, on a smile, a fleeting glance. Grantaire needed Enjolras in order to live and Enjolras needed Grantaire in order to die, to die with his revolution, with his beliefs. That doesn’t go away. Not in a hail of bullets, not in a hundred and eighty-two years.   

     “Is the risk really worth it, Marius?”   

     “I still think it’s wrong.” He doesn’t directly answer him, only shakes his head. Marius should say all of that to Grantaire, to hit him for being so stupid, so stubborn, so fucking foolish. He won’t though. Can’t because certainly Grantaire knows it and certainly it scares the living shit out of him. All Marius can hope to do is get him to see it, to admit it. The fear that it’s not as deeply ingrained in their souls as Marius believes it to be lingers in the back of his mind until he remembers how they died. “He’s grieving and he’s confused. He thinks he’s losing his fucking mind. He’s remembering, Grantaire, and it’s killing him.”   

     “It gets better. It gets easier. You’ve been through it, you know what it’s like.”   

     “What if it doesn’t? How did you handle it when you remembered?”   

     “I drank and I painted.” Grantaire says as if it was as simple as that. He doesn’t share the part about Éponine cleaning him up after vomiting all over himself, about Éponine helping him out of his pants when he drank so much he pissed himself, about Éponine holding him while he screamed and cried. How long it was before he could sleep alone in his own bed without her arms around him, her voice filling the deadly silence? He doesn’t tell him how she saved his life. He only thinks about how much he really owes her. “I drank and I painted and it got easier with time. What did you do?”   

     “I found Cosette.” And it was that easy. After he saw her, nothing was as hard as not having his hand in hers.    

     “See? He has Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He has all of you.”   

     “It’s not the same as you.”     

     “No.” He agrees. “It’s better.”   

     “How can you say that?” His voice raises in the cafe and people look at him. Through clenched teeth, he leans across the table to hiss at his friend. “How can you say that you don’t mean more to him?”   

     “I know you weren’t close to him but you saw our relationship, Marius.” He says dismissively, looking out the window again. “You saw that we were nothing more than the other’s opposite. I watched him try to save the world and he watched me drink away my own.”   

     Anger stirs in Marius’ heart. Can he really be this stupid? How many lives does he need to learn his own self-worth? “And holding hands was nothing? Holding hands was just some last whim of life? A last fuck you to the National Guard?”   

     Grantaire slowly turns to him, his breathing unsteady and his face unreadable. He pales as he sits up in his chair, abandoning the attempted leisurely posture for something far more aggressive. Marius doesn’t move away. Quietly, almost too soft for Marius to hear, he asks, “How do you know that?”   

     Smiling softly, sadly, he drops his gaze to the reclaimed wood table, knitting his brow when he realizes how familiar it looks. When Grantaire asks again, he notices it’s fear, not anger in his voice. More urgently this time, he speaks in a hushed whisper. “We were the last ones. How do you know that?”   

     Marius looks up to his friend. Calmly, he says, “I didn’t die at the barricades.” He doesn’t see the friends who died after he was dragged away. Instead, he sees flashes of newspaper articles, sketches that were released, the red flag that hung from the window for weeks after. He hears the words of those who spoke their names in dark alleys and busy streets in whispers so soft, Marius sometimes glances over his shoulders when he hears them now. Both awe and disapproval followed their rebellion, their deaths. Especially Enjolras. _That silly boy_ , he can still hear. _The foolish child_.    

     “What?” Grantaire swallows.    

     “I didn’t die at the barricades.”   

     “Were you a fucking spy?”   

     “What? Fuck you!” He spits angrily before taking a deep breath and passing his shock. His voice softens but his eyes stay sharp in the accusation. “No, I wasn’t a fucking spy. Do you remember the volunteer? He was Cosette’s father. I wrote a letter to her and Monsieur Valjean came to the barricade to protect me.”   

     “And he did.” Grantaire says dumbly, part asking, part stating.   

     “He dragged me out through the sewers.”   

     “You were shot. You were bleeding. You died. Everyone died.” Grantaire says loudly. People look towards their table and it’s going to be a few weeks before they can come back here. “Did you marry Cosette? How did you die? When? When did you die, Marius?”   

     “I did marry her. The following February. Every month after that fades until the memories themselves die. I remember up to the barricade and about two years after then,” he waves his hand, “nothing of that life.”   

     “You survived.”   

     “Only because of Cosette. For Cosette.” Marius says. He watches Grantaire carefully, the blue eyes flooding with uncontrolled tears. “Are you going to hit me?”   

     The tears start to fall as he snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. A second time he repeats, “You survived.”   

     “For Cosette.”   

     “For love,” corrects Grantaire with a small smile. It sounds so ridiculous to his own ears that he snorts out a laugh. Marius echoes it and it's been a long time Grantaire has been able to breathe so easily. He doesn't want to think about how nice it would be to hear Enjolras' laugh.

  
  
\------------------------------------

  
  
     “But what if he doesn’t want to date me?”    

     “But what if he doesn’t want to date me,” mimics Combeferre in a childish voice. Enjolras looks up from his book with wide eyes and a small, shocked smile pulling into a large amused grin at the immature response. It’s the first sign that Combeferre is getting fed up and rarely does he ever get fed up. “Suck it up, Courfeyrac. You won’t know until you ask him.”   

     “But if he says no, it’ll be weird. It can fuck up all of the progress I’ve made.” Courfeyrac flops to the couch, his head landing next to Enjolras’s leg. He pats his friend’s shoulder sympathetically but stays out of the conversation. The two have been discussing this for the better part of an hour while Enjolras focused on the unfamiliar words in front of him. Combeferre had insisted he’s read this book before but Enjolras is certain he’s mistaken. He doesn’t recognize any piece of this novel no matter how wrinkled the corners of the pages are from dogeared bookmarks. It’s more likely that Enjolras has let his friends borrow the book before reading it himself.  

     That makes sense, Enjolras tells himself. It’s a reasonable excuse he can convince Combeferre of so his friend doesn’t have to worry. Enjolras can figure this out, he just needs time. Besides, it’s been easier lately. If that means it’s taking him longer and longer to figure out things aren’t real, well that doesn’t mean anything. And if he can convince the others that it’s nothing more than a head cold, too much flu medicine, a bad night’s sleep, maybe he can convince himself as well. Just until he figures it out. It would be so much easier if he could just find Grantaire. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about him, too.   

     “Have you seen Grantaire around lately?” He interrupts suddenly. His two friends share a look that he catches, despite their subtle attempt. Enjolras tries to keep his anger from rising by biting the inside of cheek.   

     “No, E,” Combeferre tells him gently. “Sorry.”    

     “Are you sure?” The blond narrows his eyes, not wanting to believe him. Why would they lie to him? He’s starting to get used to the taste of blood in his mouth. “Not at the Musain or the Corinth? You haven’t seen him around at all? He’s got to be somewhere.”   

     Courfeyrac looks like he’s trying very hard to keep his face straight and Enjolras has a feeling it’s tears he’s holding back. It hurts him somewhere deep under the anger. When they give him the same answer, he simply nods and goes back to the book. Their conversation picks up, a bit forced at first before they both push through the constraint in their chests and they’re smoothly arguing again.   

     “Think about the next meeting!” Courfeyrac whines. “It would be painfully awkward.”   

     “No it won’t,” Combeferre says with a roll of his eyes. Enjolras studies him from the corner of his eye, wondering what’s bothering him so much that it’s making him quicker to use abrupt tones and sharp tempers. Never has he seen his friend so short on patience. It’s concerning, to say the least, and Enjolras has made it a point to find out. There is nothing in this world that has the right to wrong Combeferre. Not even the dueling worlds in Enjolras’ head is enough to keep him away from finding out what’s wrong with Combeferre. Enjolras can figure it out and can fix it just the same way he can figure out why he knows French and watches the movements of the police force. “If he says no,” the man continues, pulling Enjolras away from the foreign speech echoing in his head, “you’ll just move on instead of being this mopey sad sack you’ve been lately.”

     “If he says no, I’ll be even sadder.”   

     “That doesn’t make any sense, Courf.” He says after taking a bite of an apple. Enjolras looks up at the crunch, eyeing the apple hopefully and momentarily forgetting his anger and Grantaire and starving children. The simple reminder that he's around his friends, especially his best friends, he can force the canon shots, the screams and death away because they wouldn't lie to him. They love him. Catching the blue stare, Combeferre tosses him the fruit and disappears into the kitchen to grab another one.   

     “Thank you,” Enjolras says softly. He hopes they understand he means it for everything, for just being here for him. Next to him Courfeyrac opens one eye to see what he’s talking about before rolling to his stomach and burying his head under his arms, pressing closer to Enjolras as if asking for him to support his side. Enjolras only shakes his head and switches hands so he can hold the book with one and eat the apple with the other.   

     When the apartment stays quiet, Courfeyrac defends himself. “If he knows I want to date him and he doesn’t want to date me, it will be weird. You can’t deny that possibility, Ferre.”    

     Through the muffled, accented response, Combeferre tilts his head to hear it. He shakes his head in disagreement. “It’s a possibility but it’s a stupid one.”  

     Enjolras smiles at him. "That was rather inarticulate.”   

     “Well I’m done with this conversation.” He sighs, turning to his laptop. “You know what I think you should do.”   

     “What do you think, E?” Courfeyrac asks, just barely lifting his head to see his friend.   

     “You’re focusing on the answer being no,” Enjolras points out. “What if he says yes?”   

     The Irishman is quiet for a long stretch of time, the only sounds in the apartment being the steady crunch of the apples being eaten and the coffee machine bubbling to life in the kitchen. Courfeyrac sits up, still staring at Enjolras, then turns to Combeferre. Jerking his thumb in the blond’s direction he asks, “When the fuck did Enjolras become the voice of reason in relationship advice?”   

     “Technically it’s not reason but optimism,” Combeferre corrects.   

     The blond bites back a chuckle to add, “And technically you aren't in a relationship.”    

     Courfeyrac groans, dropping his head to the couch dramatically. Minutes pass and when there is neither support nor comfort, he sits up. Enjolras’ gaze flickers to him before going back to his book and Combeferre’s glare is as quick to rise as it is to fall back to the computer screen. Growing restless with boredom, Courfeyrac gets up to pour their coffee, hoping that would start another conversation. When it accomplishes nothing more than two distracted  _thanks_ he sighs and climbs onto Enjolras’ lap, resting the back of his head against the arm of the couch and forcing his friend to pull his eyes away from the book. Because Enjolras is too good to him, he puts the book down on the couch and smiles placidly at Courfeyrac.    

     After kissing his friend’s forehead, Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre. “So, Ferre. When are we going to meet that special being that has stolen your heart?” 

     Combeferre doesn’t look up from the screen as he shakes his head. “Not for a while.”   

     “Why? We’re not that bad,” Enjolras says rather unconvinced.   

     It brings Combeferre’s eyes up. He studies his two friends for a moment before closing his computer. “It’s not you guys. We’re just taking some space is all.”   

     Enjolras knits his brow. “What?”    

     “Since when?” asks Courfeyrac.    

     “What happened?”   

     “We’ll kill someone if you want.”   

     “Do you want me to speak sternly to them?”   

     “I’ll come as back up.”    

     “Do we need ice cream?” 

     “I’ll bring the whiskey.”   

     Waving them off with a barely restrained chuckle, Combeferre sets his laptop on the coffee table and leans back in the armchair. “It’s not us," he promises. “She’s dealing with some stuff right now. It’s a priority to her so until it’s handled, we’re going to take it slow.”   

     His smiles grows soft at how she nodded, smiling honestly at his vague explanation. She offered to go back to meeting for coffee and simple lunches if that was easier. She offered to be a friend for him until he felt like he could give her more. He still can’t understand how he’s found such an amazing woman to fall in love with.   

     “What’s wrong?” Enjolras’ concerned voice brings his attention back from the bittersweet conversation. “Does she need help?”    

     “Her brother’s sick," he lies smoothly.   

     “Can you help him? How bad is it?”   

     “I don’t know. I’m a little out of my depth with this one.” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair. Enjolras frowns sympathetically and Courfeyrac looks to him with a narrowed glare, jaw clenched. The intern avoids the look.   

     Enjolras catches sight of the clock, cusses, and then pushes Courfeyrac gently off his lap. He makes Combeferre promise to let him know if there’s anything he can do to help before running off to meet Feuilly for lunch, only half an hour late. The two men are quiet when he leaves, both running over upsetting words as they glare at each other. Combeferre is the one to speak first, calling up Courfeyrac’s shock at Enjolras’ advice. “Be careful what you say around E.”   

     Courfeyrac purses his lips thoughtfully, confusion and anger clear in the lines around his eyes. “What?”   

     “Be careful of what you say around him.”    

     “No, I heard you I just don’t understand.”   

     “He's been a little off lately and we need to be cautious. We don’t want to add more confusion or set off one of his weird moods by pointing out something that’s new.”   

     “Oh you've noticed E’s been weird too?” Courfeyrac feigns surprised relief. “Thank god. I thought I was the only one who saw him jump in front of the train to get to a man who doesn't exist! I thought I was the only one who’s noticed he’s suddenly getting lost in a city he’s lived in for nearly a decade. Do you know what the fuck a Corinth is then, Combeferre? Because I have no fucking clue. Ferre! You should have said something earlier.”   

     “There's no reason to be a dick.”   

     “Me? Being a dick? You're the one being a dick. Warning me about Enjolras.” Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Fuck you, Ferre. Don't treat me like I haven't been there to pick up the pieces too. Don’t think you’re the only one who sits up late at night researching what could be the cause.”   

     “Look,” Combeferre sighs. “The last thing I want is a fight so I'm sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came across.”   

     After a moment, Courfeyrac nods his understanding and they fall quiet. For a long stretch of time, they’re caught up in the bizarre behavior of the last few months. The constant concern and worry, the fear and alarm sits heavy on their chests and lingers in their cautious words. Courfeyrac sighs heavily, looking up to his friend. “It’s not her brother who’s sick, is it?”   

     Combeferre doesn’t look away from the edge of the coffee table he’s been staring at. Without looking away, he shakes his head. It’s a short, defeated movement. “Nope.”   

     “What are we going to do, Ferre?” He asks in a hushed whisper as if Enjolras is still here. “What can we do? There’s something wrong. And if there’s something wrong, there’s something we can do.”   

     “I don’t know. There’s no physical explanation.”   

     “Meaning it’s mental?”   

     He nods, then shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Combeferre drops his head to the back of the chair with a frustrated sigh. “I work in the ER. I fix broken bones and concussions. I don’t know what hallucinations, confusion, memory loss, and whatever that weird daze he walks in sometimes all adds up to. All I know is it’s not normal, it’s not healthy, and it scares the shit out of me.”   

     “He’s not crazy,” states Courfeyrac.   

     “I never said that.”   

     Leaning towards him, Courfeyrac asks in a hushed whisper, “But what if he is crazy?”   

     After a thoughtful moment where Combeferre runs a thumb across his bottom lip, he looks up to his friend. “We’ll take care of him. Just the same as he would for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts!
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine doesn't agree with Grantaire's plan. Enjolras falls farther from reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update is so, so ridiculously late but thank you for the great comments and kudos!!!

     She finds him on the roof. It’s his go to spot for when the dreams, the voices, the cold and dead loneliness gets overwhelming. The lights startle him into this life. He can stare at them for hours. Some times, in the cooler evenings, she sits out with him with hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls from the bakery down the street. Other times they share a bottle of wine or once on his birthday they finished an entire cake. It wasn’t even those smaller cakes that feed four people but a full two layered cake that they easily polished off. Today there are no sweets or cuddly blankets. There’s only snow, whiskey, and a dozen canvases. They litter the ground like symbolic bread crumbs on the way across the roof to where Grantaire has draped himself over the edge of the space.

     As she walks over to him she makes a note to start getting home earlier. It’s been months since she’s had to keep an extra eye on him but given the last few weeks, she’s not surprised he’s continued to spiral. Grantaire is nothing if not predictable. Her steps are slow enough for her to glance at the paintings, each one darker than the last. He’s lost his usual semi-abstract style, resorting to painting his and Enjolras’ death over and over again. Some are of his view looking up at the blond, others of Enjolras with his arms thrown out and chest bared or of the guards with their guns aimed. One is of the blond looking out the window at his fallen friends. The last one is just their hands, bloodied and loosely intertwined in death. She’ll collect them on her way down and tuck them safely away just like Grantaire tries to do with the memories in his head.

     Éponine sits on the ledge next to him and pats his back. The man rolls his head to look at her but doesn’t lift it up from the cold stone. He closes his eyes and gives her a tight-lipped smile. It falls quickly. There’s a line impressed in his chin from the edge of the railing telling how long he’s been sitting there. He turns back to watching the few people walking below them. From this far up, they look like nothing more than parka covered spots that drift along the snow.

     “They don’t know.” He says in French with an absent wave to the people below. “They don’t know, you know?” 

     “No I don’t, babe. What don’t they know?” She answers in English because her French screams of her lower social class. No amount of reading has shifted her impoverished accent. The drastic difference between their words makes it harder to draw strength from her own memories.

     “What he did for them. What he gave for them, the faith he had in them.” He stares down at the people with a pained grimace, cursing them through clenched teeth. “The foolish, naive creatures.”

     He lives in a constant and pained dissociative state, caught between this life and that death. It’s not a way to live, yet alone survive. Éponine has lost count of how many times she’s tried to push him out of Enjolras’ speeches. He’ll never listen because she’s not Enjolras. Scratching his back with one hand, she reaches for the bottle of whiskey at his side with the other. “There are people that remember what you did. What he did. This is the wrong country, Grantaire. They think of revolutionaries like Washington and Jefferson. Not French students.”

     “They should know. Everyone should know.” He jolts up in his anger, pointing at each and every spot below. “And look at them! This hell they laugh through. No one fights anymore. They all talk about it and they blog about it and they strive for a better future but instead of actually doing anything, they just get  _brunch_.” He snarls out the word. Grantaire shakes his head, sighing deeply. “How angry he must be.”

     “Have you seen him?” She asks gently. Grantaire shakes his head, dropping his chin to the stone. This may be the perfect opportunity to push him to finally connecting with Enjolras again. “It would probably be easier for him if he had you to help him through it.”

     “He has Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He actually likes them.”

     She had seen Enjolras help him stumble back to his rooms more than a few times on the dark Parisian nights. Through snow and rain and gangs, he always made sure the artist was somewhere safe. No one drags you home after you vomit on their boots if they dislike you. It was at least an obligated friendship and there’s no question Enjolras would do anything for his friends. Although who is she to judge misguided emotions? “Do they remember?”

     “Not that I know of. Lucky assholes.”

     “Then it’s not the same as having someone hold his hand through this. Someone who has been there. You know, someone who has woken up screaming and cried over forgotten graves.”

     “He’ll never know. He’ll wake up screaming but he will never know.”

     She stops scratching his back. Looking down at him, she narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

     “Marius and I have a plan,” slurs Grantaire. He looks torn between pride and guilt. Not enough guilt, Éponine would think, if she wasn’t caught up on the name. “He’ll scream and he’ll cry and he’ll grieve but he’ll never know it’s real.”

     “What plan, Grantaire? What do you mean?”

     “We’re not going to tell him. We’re going to make sure he doesn’t know.”

      Éponine stands up, anger clutching at her lungs. Before she realizes it, she’s yelling in French. “He’ll know! He’ll figure it out in the same way I did and you did and Marius must have.”

     The man doesn’t look up at her. “Do you remember a time when you didn’t know? You were eight, Éponine. A baby.”

     She kicks him hard in the thigh, finally forcing him to look at her in shock. Before he can question her, she’s warning him in a low, dangerous tone. “Don’t you dare negate my opinion because of my age.”

     “We are protecting him," he explains instead of apologizing. There’s a bite to his words that challenges hers. Sensing an argument, he staggers to his feet. “Éponine,” he pleads softly. “We’re helping him. A few hard months is better than a lifetime of grief. How can you say that’s not better than what we suffer?”

     “Because we go through it together. We learn from it, grow from it. We can do better, be better than what we were. Nothing but pain comes from not knowing the truth.”

     “You were murdered at sixteen, Éponine.” 

    “I died at the barricade," she growls. “We both died for something we believed in, Grantaire. Why would you not want him to remember that?"

    “Because how many times does he have to die before he learns he can’t change anything?” Grantaire suddenly shouts. He leans over the edge and points at the people. “Look at them, Ép! They don’t remember because we didn’t matter! We died for a revolution that didn’t need our blood. The things he could have done.” He shakes his head, looking down at the people. “He deserves to help a thousand souls and see that change their lives. He can’t do that if he continues to kill himself in the name of the impossible. He’s happy now. He shouldn’t be killing himself.”

    “Do you think his happiness will last if all he sees when he closes his eyes is you? He never lived with knowing that you believed in him. Truly, to the death believed in him. Why not see what that could bring you?”

    “What was I?” Grantaire begs to know. “What did I bring to him? I only woke up because the guns stopped. I died at his feet because I had nothing left. Everyone I loved was murdered while I slept off a bender. How do I deserve any piece of them in this life? How can I burden him again?”

     She narrows her eyes at him, then shakes her head as she pieces it together. “You’re afraid. You’re afraid of losing him again.”

     He looks away. “No.”

     “You’re afraid of losing him and not being able to follow.”  

     “No,” Grantaire repeats dumbly.

     “This is about you!” She accuses. “This is about you being afraid of what he’ll do when he remembers you. This is about you being afraid of him leaving you because you’re afraid of what he’ll think of you.”   

     His bottom lip trembles. With his head tilted, he looks at her with a strange sort of horror in his eyes as if vocalizing it makes it true and therefore it’s her fault. He knits his brow and shakes his head, looking away from her. “No. No, he’s killing himself. I’m protecting him!”

     Éponine closes the distance between them with a sharp slap across his cheek. The sound echoes in the cold space of the empty rooftop. She glares at him with more anger than she’s ever felt in this lifetime. “You are the most selfish person I have ever met.” Leaning in close, she adds, “And my mother gave away two of her children!”

     He’s silent as she turns on her heels and stalks back to the stairway. Before slamming the door on him, she shouts, “Don’t kill yourself until you finish those god damn commissions you owe me!” Softer, she decides, “Then I want you out of my apartment.” 

    “Éponine,” Grantaire calls desperately. “Please.” 

    She takes a step closer to him but the last pieces of hope fades from his chest when he sees her eyes are lit with enough anger to illuminate the rooftop. “Until you talk to him, I don’t want you in my life.”

  
\------------------------------------

  
     “You’re not real.” Enjolras tells the image. Hallucination, his mind supplies. His voice doesn’t sound convincing. “You’re a manifestation of my,” he pauses, failing to find an explanation that doesn’t condemn him. Finally, he settles on, “Exhaustion.”

     The man looks at him like he's being ridiculous. “When you’re ready to discuss more important things let me know.”

     “Oh and my inability to maintain a grip on reality is not important?”

     “You have a grip on reality.” The man says with a sigh. “You are just choosing to ignore it. What progress will come from that?”

     Enjolras’ only response is an uncertain glare. It’s himself, he knows that. The blond hair is longer, hanging in looser, dirtier curls and his white shirt is drenched in blood but it’s him. They’re in the Musain, alone in the upstairs room. Enjolras at one table by the window and the other man at the table next to him, his distance polite and respectful while Enjolras’ is fearful. It’s dark outside but if it’s morning or night, he can’t remember. He can’t remember if he’s sleeping or not either. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Not anymore. Only one thing matters and that’s protecting his friends. Saving them from himself. “We killed them.” He accuses the man, breaking the rather peaceful silence that had settled between them.

     The bloody Enjolras looks up from where he was studying the holes in his chest. They match the scars Enjolras feels late at night. The fire behind him is roaring, the only noise in the room outside of their breathing. It’s unclear if it’s real, as it was in 1832, or if it’s the fake fire his Musain has now. Enjolras can’t see past the identical lines of his exposed collarbone, the well-known scars, the bloody fingerprints on his palm that aren’t his own. He can feel the weight of Grantaire’s hand in his own. He wonders if the other man can. Still the warmth of the fire is welcomed. It seems to chase the ever growing chill away from his bones, if only for the minute or the dream.

     “They knew the risk.” The man says in a voice similar to Enjolras’ but in a different tongue. It’s lyrical and romantic and he hates how much he longs to hear the sound of it. He has to force himself not to answer in the same language.

     “They shouldn’t have been there. We shouldn’t have let them be there.”

     “There was nothing that could be done. The revolution was necessary.”

     “The rebellion,” Enjolras corrects the man, corrects himself. “We were not successful. Nothing but death came from giving our lives.”

     “Our sacrifice.” The man shifts in his seat, sitting up and leaning his arms on the table. The intensity radiates off of him, not intimidating but encouraging. His blue eyes reflect the flame of the fire. Enjolras looks away, forcing his eyes closed against to flash of that same reflection looking back at him from the small mirror that hung in his rooms. He can feel the curving wood of his wardrobe under his fingers.

     “Call it what you want,” he says, “but we both know it was murder.”

     “There is no murder in war.” 

     “There is only murder in war!” He shouts, pushing his chair back as he stands. The man sighs, looking away like a mother would with a frustrated child, waiting for a temper tantrum to pass. “We accomplished nothing.” Enjolras spits, his anger leaving him cold. He moves to stand in front of the fire, arms crossed over his chest as the chill grows more violent.

     “Enjolras?” A voice startles him, causing him to stumble to the side. He tosses his arms out, catching the side of the fireplace. It's hot under his touch but smooth, the brick fading to level stone. In the doorway by the stairs a young woman tilts her head in concern. Enjolras studies her face, trying to sort what he knows and what he wants to know. She's not a spy, she's not a threat. Her voice is kind. He likes the sound of it. “Hey, what are you doing here so early?”

     “Who is she?” The man asks. He shouldn’t be here anymore. Enjolras glares at him, silently demanding him to leave.

     “Have you been here all night?” The woman asks, her voice cutting over the French words and bringing his gaze away from the man, now standing with his back straight and his jaw set.

     Her name escapes his mind and he shuts his eyes, pressing his palms against his forehead. Her touch is gentle, her smile warm, and he remembers it. She’s sitting on his couch, laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes. She’s a friend. “Joly. Joly and Bossuet’s girlfriend. Musichetta.”

     “She is a distraction.” The man sighs, rolling his eyes and setting Enjolras with a rather bored expression. “Send her away. There is work we must do.”

     “No,” snaps Enjolras, turning to glare at him.

     He meets the same glare before Musichetta speaks again, her voice wavers a bit in uncertainty, maybe even fear and it hurts Enjolras to hear. “You know, I’m going to call Combeferre, okay?”

     Before he can respond she’s walking down the stairs. Enjolras is sure the phone is already pressed to her ear. Where is his phone? He turns to the man, who’s watching him. “I didn’t want them to die.” The French rings out above the cracking fire. “I didn’t want anyone to die but we had to. It was necessary for the future.”

     “Sixteen years. It was another sixteen fucking years before a revolution took hold. Do you really believe we had anything to do with that?”

     “Do you really believe we didn’t?”

     A car door slams from the street, a shot echoing in the building and when Enjolras turns away from the window where he was searching for the shooter, the man is gone. Enjolras sits down next to the fire, wrapping his arms around his knees. A tremor spins its way down his spine, pulling at his breath and blood fills his ears, his vision, his mouth, his lungs. He tries to remember case statistics, phone numbers, and addresses, repeating them over and over again with closed eyes to try and fend off the onslaught of foreign screams and flashes of his pistol. He squeezes his fist against the slight burn of the gunpowder, the kickback, the hot metal against his skin. A cannon echoes from the other side of the barricade and he flinches, anticipating it’s impact. Something brushes against his arm and he stumbles back, away from the enemy, from the debris, from the dead bodies. The hand is gentle and familiar, _warm and alive_ , but it grabs his arm tightly. Cries fill his ears, demands from the National Guard, doors slamming shut, locks clicking in place and they’re trapped. He fights harder and harder until he’s pinned. Only then does he open his eyes, ready to throws his arms out and offer them his chest.

     It’s Combeferre leaning over him. Enjolras blinks. Tears the consistency of blood run down his face. It must be Combeferre’s knee on his chest, Combeferre’s hands holding his wrists to the floor. It must be Combeferre’s voice calling his name so softly it drowns out the grapeshot cannon. He loves Combeferre. Trusts him.  _He killed Combeferre_. Enjolras closes his eyes again and drops his head to the floor beneath him, smacking it hard enough to feel it’s real. He does it again and again until the pain shouts above the ache in his chest and he knows it's real. The fight leaves his body with a shuddering breath, closer to a sob than a sigh. Combeferre loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. He drops his head to Enjolras’ shoulder, keeping him as close as he can before he moves his hands to gather him into a hug. Pulling him to his chest where Enjolras is safe. Combeferre sighs while Enjolras grieves.

     “It’s okay. I’m here, you’re okay.” He promises.

     Cries rip through Enjolras' throat, more painful than the bullets. He grabs onto Combeferre’s shirt, pulling him closer, feeling his heart against his cheek, the warmth of his skin. His eyes are shut and he sees nothing but black. “I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras sees Grantaire again but maybe it's time to get him some more help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY it took me nine years to update. I will be better, it just took me some time to really find out the best direction to take the story in and will have more frequent updates. Promise! And always feel free to yell at me on tumblr when it starts getting to a ridiculous point or you get impatient. I hope you enjoy!

         Courfeyrac shivers as he stomps the snow off of his boots. The familiar lobby isn’t much warmer than the dramatic temperature outside. Enjolras lives in an old building but the heat should at least help melt some of the snow on the steps. This is just a safety hazard, he decides as he slips while trying to pull off one of his gloves. He catches himself but ends up putting down the tray off coffee and the bag full of food, just in case. The door swings open, bringing a fresh wave of frigid air. Combeferre steps in quickly and Courfeyrac debates keeping his hat on. It’s covered in the wet and heavy snow, not doing much in keeping him warm so he decides to take it off and shoves it into the bag along side his gloves. In his friend’s hands is a white casserole dish that Courfeyrac has definitely seen before. He can’t seem to place it, nor the reason why he knows it’s called a casserole dish.    

     “What is this?” He takes the pan so Combeferre can take his own hat off. Flashes of a busy, newly decorated apartment fill his mind but it’s coupled with the same worry, the same cautious observing of their friend. “It smells good.”   

     “Lasagna.” Combeferre tosses his hat and gloves into his own bag of food next to Courfeyrac’s, then unwraps his scarf. This is the perfect day to stay warm inside with a cup of tea and a book but they don’t have that luxury anymore. The quiet, unspoken understanding that they may never have that kind of peace again sits heavily above their thoughts.    

     “You made lasagna?” he asks with a disbelieving laugh as he peeks under the foil.   

     “No,” Combeferre answers shortly. He misses the questioning look Courfeyrac sends him that begs to know why he’s already angry. It’s ten in the morning. Besides the meaning behind this outing into the blizzard-like weather, what could have upset him already? Then Courfeyrac remembers the reason behind being here and something twists painfully in his chest. “Cosette made it. She dropped it off this morning. It’s already cooked so he just has to heat it up. With this we don’t have to worry about the incident with the stove happening again and it’ll last him several days.”    

     “That’s great,” Courfeyrac nods because Enjolras tried to burn wood logs in his oven. Where he got the logs, they can’t begin to guess. “Did you get today off?” He asks as he follows him up the stairs, still holding the pan while Combeferre picks out his coffee from the tray. They each carry a bag of food. After doing the math, Courfeyrac realizes that Enjolras should be good for at least two weeks. They’ll still drop by every time they can manage.   

     “Yeah. Joly’s covering for me.” The man pauses between the second and third floor to finish his coffee in one long sip. When he’s done, he glances to Courfeyrac before dropping his gaze with a guilty look, then glances back up the stairs again. It makes sense when he admits, “I’m going to offer him the extra room again.”   

     “You’re going to piss him off.”   

     “It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep an eye on him if he’s living with one of us.” It’s an unnecessary explanation. They’ve both offered their apartments to Enjolras on multiple occasions over the last few weeks. Enjolras’ response varies from promising he’ll think about it to laughing the concern off to violently angered. They’re either left with guilt for assuming he’s incapable of living by himself or worry with even more new evidence to support that fact that something’s wrong and he might not be able to live by himself. Combeferre slows his steps to bring up the cautious question. “Don’t you think it’s time for him to talk to someone?”   

     Courfeyrac instantly shakes his head, not even considering the option as he walks past his friend. Whatever this is, they can handle it. Enjolras is not crazy and they’re not going to lose him over the assumption. He ignores the realization that his reaction to this question is similar to Enjolras’ and the request to move in with one of them. “No. He’s just confused, Ferre.”   

     “So confused that he’s not eating? Or sleeping? Or showing up to work? Or answering his phone? I mean, for fucks sake Courfeyrac! Cosette won’t even come by here without Marius anymore because he doesn’t remember her. How can he not remember someone he’s known and loved for years? How can we just let that slide?”   

     “Don’t get mad at me. That’s not fair.” Courfeyrac watches his boots on the wooden stairs because Combeferre’s right. Something’s wrong but they can fix this. They just need to know what they’re up against. “I have just as many answers as you do.”   

     Combeferre stops walking. He drops his head and sighs. The exhaustion in his eyes matches Courfeyrac’s, both kept awake and worn thin by their growing dread, the extra lengths they’ve gone to, the constant checking in to make sure Enjolras isn’t setting his kitchen on fire or leaving windows open or remembering to pay his rent. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared. And tired. God, I’m tired of stopping by after twelve hour shifts to make sure he’s still here because he won’t answer his phone. I’m scared that we have to coordinate what food we’re going to pick up for him because he gets turned around walking the three blocks to the grocery store. And that’s when he remembers to buy food! I hate watching his life slip away and not knowing why.”   

     Not having a response, Courfeyrac can only nod his agreement and keep climbing to the apartment. There’s no value running through the fears, the concerns, the growing understanding that there is something very, very wrong with their best friend. As the strange behavior of the last few months comes crashing back in a rush of memories and symptoms, Courfeyrac speeds up because all he wants to do is get to Enjolras. He wants to keep him in his arms and protect him from whatever is haunting his mind.   

     A long minute goes by where Combeferre stays behind. He takes deep breaths, closes his eyes, and reminds himself that they are capable of handling this. His fault in questioning their friend’s sanity keeps him from believing the optimistic ending to this story that Courfeyrac continues to defend. Enough time passes where he regains the composure and strength to pretend he does. Maybe. Maybe this will go back to normal as quickly as it seemed to spiral apart.   

     When he rounds the stairway, he sees Courfeyrac knocking on the door. He had expected having to pry Enjolras out of Courfeyrac’s hug for his own. Combeferre closes the distance, the tinder of panic in his chest just a spark away from exploding. “Is it locked? Just use your key.”   

     “It won’t open,” Courfeyrac explains. He turns the doorknob and pushes the door as far open as he can, looking to Combeferre when it’s stopped by something on the other side. They’re only left with a fraction of light from inside and no glimpse of Enjolras.   

     “What’s blocking it?”   

     “Fuck if I know.” He hits harder and starts yelling. The door smacks whatever is blocking it and ricochets back, nearly catching Courfeyrac’s fingers. “Enjolras! Come on, man. Open up!”   

     It’s a few minutes before Enjolras’ voice rings out. Despite the paranoia in his question, it’s a relief that he’s in there and alive. Courfeyrac takes a short moment to realize that both he and Combeferre were holding their breath to confirm Enjolras’ own. Maybe they do need a new approach. “Who’s there?”   

     “Courfeyrac and Ferre,” Courfeyrac calls back. There’s a short response that is quickly drowned out by scraping wood. The two outside share a look but turn when Enjolras opens the door.    

     Enjolras grins madly at them. It’s a pleasantly surprised smile, like he hasn’t noticed they’ve stopped by every Saturday morning with food and coffee for the last four weeks. It’s been three days since they’ve seen him and he seems both thinner and stronger, more energized and more exhausted. The light in his eyes sparks a dramatic contrast to the black shadows under them. His hair is pulled back with a string and his hands are stained with ink. “Hello.” There’s an odd roughness to his words, like the language doesn’t sound right in his voice. His grin hasn’t lessened as he steps back to let his friends inside. “Please! Come in. How are you?”   

     Before Courfeyrac can say anything, Combeferre is asking, “What are you putting in front of your door?”    

     “Only the bookcase.” He waves his hand towards the empty wooden shelf. The books that once sat there are now scattered on one of the couches, falling to the floor. Combeferre frowns at Enjolras while Courfeyrac takes another few steps into the apartment. It looks drastically different than the other day, crowded and unfamiliar. There are hundreds of photos taped on the wall and sitting on the shelf that once held the television, which now sits shattered off to the side of the room. Maps, papers, heavily annotated notes, and various sticky notes litter the coffee table and small desk against the wall. There’s even a sticky note stuck on the hem of Enjolras’ wrinkled shirt.    

     “That’s a terrible fire hazard, E,” Combeferre is saying. Courfeyrac sets the pan on the kitchen island and then circles around the living room, taking in the notes and statistics.    

     Enjolras runs a hand through his hair. It pulls half of it out of the tie and the string falls to the floor. “Well we must be more cautious. Things are getting tense on the streets.”   

     “What do you mean?” After handing Enjolras the tray of coffees, Combeferre picks up the tie and pulls the blond curls back into a short ponytail. It's unusual in itself to keep his hair this long, a rather unprofessional look in the impressive law career he's pursuing. But he's not showing up to work anymore so it doesn't really matter.    

     “Did you not listen at the last meeting, Ferre? Perhaps your studies have finally started interfering with Les Amis.” It’s meant to be a joke, something to wave off Combeferre’s clear concern but they haven’t had a meeting in a month. That and Combeferre isn’t in school. Both things Enjolras is supposed to know. He agreed with them about postponing the meetings until after the holidays, a convenient excuse to explain how Enjolras had forgotten three meetings in a row. At Combeferre’s graduation, he was the first one to cheer. Two years ago.    

     Against the constriction of fear in his chest, Combeferre pulls his friend into a tight hug. A tear escapes and he quickly brushes it away before Enjolras can see it. He agrees with as much conviction as he can manage in a soft, “Perhaps.”    

     When they part, Combeferre takes the coffee tray and the bags of food into the kitchen. Enjolras is quickly pulled into a hug from Courfeyrac. If he notices how often they grab him or the unusual length and emotions in the embraces, he doesn’t say anything. It’s the same way that they don’t mention the new way Enjolras breaks down after staring at one of his friends for too long or panics when he can’t reach one despite the unrealistic timeframes he gives himself to find them. The only comment on the strange need to confirm their friends safety is Courfeyrac’s attempt to remind him of the convenience a phone can offer.    

     “Where have you been these last few days?” Courfeyrac asks when he separates. Enjolras takes half a step towards him, as if he’s not quite ready to part. “Lamarque’s asking about you. You can only miss so many days before you get in trouble for it.”   

     Enjolras nods in a way that gives them the impression that he’s not really listening. He walks into the living room, studying the papers on the wall as he speaks. It’s a way to avoid eye contact. “How is Lamarque? I keep meaning to stop by and offer my condolences.”   

     “Condolences?” Courfeyrac repeats. He looks to Combeferre. “For what?”   

     “His illness. Dreadful disease,” Enjolras responds distractedly, shaking his head. He takes a step towards his desk before changing his mind and walking back into the kitchen. After accepting the cup of coffee from Combeferre and ignoring the shared look between his friends, he takes a long sip. “Thank you for this.”   

     Courfeyrac wants to bring work up again but the questions die on his tongue. Instead he focuses on putting away the groceries. That is easy and safe. Maybe even a little reassuring until he finds Enjolras’ phone in the back of the empty pantry covered by a pillow. The apartment falls quiet. Enjolras sips his coffee and carefully watches Combeferre studying the photos in the living room. For several minutes the only noise comes from Courfeyrac opening and closing the cabinets. It’s not until Combeferre calls for Enjolras’ attention and Enjolras jumps like he was waiting for it. He steps towards his friend with his shoulders straight but his hands wringing together. Holding up a box full of old photographs, Combeferre asks, “What is all of this?”   

     “I’ve had trouble keeping track of everything, lately. It is merely a way to piece it together properly.” There’s a forced casualness in the answer. The silent plead to drop the subject screams from the way he chews on the inside of his cheek and glances between Combeferre and Courfeyrac.    

     It sends a jolt of pain through Courfeyrac’s chest and he can’t help but give Enjolras an out. After looking around he finds a rough sketch taped to the fridge. It’s a man’s profile, that much he can tell. He pulls it off to get a closer look. “Who is this, E?”   

     On the back there is a long list of notes in Enjolras’ quick, cramped handwriting. They range from basic facts to personal tidbits of information. _Black hair. Blue eyes. Tall, strong. Rough hands. Broken nose. Boxer. Dancer. He fences. Fence clubs nearby? Clever. Likes wine but prefers absinthe. Generous and kind but cynical. Artist. Prefers paint. Green always staining hands. Green- landscapes? Check country paths. Enjoys puns._ A light crosses Enjolras’ face followed by a gentle smile. He takes a step towards him to point at the paper. “That is Grantaire. For some reason I can’t find any pictures of him. Do you have one I may borrow?”   

     “No.” Courfeyrac turns the paper around to study the drawing. It’s poorly done and the lines are clearly by Enjolras’ hand but it’s not hard to see he spent hours on it. He can just picture Enjolras bending over his desk trying to get the shape of the man’s nose just right. Courfeyrac can’t decide if that’s adorable or frightening. “No I don’t, E. I’m sorry.”   

     Enjolras frowns. He takes the drawing from Courfeyrac and stares at it with a strange look that Courfeyrac wants to name as grief. It doesn’t belong on his friend’s face. “I’m getting worried,” Enjolras admits. “He knows many places around the city and has a tendency to wander but I have never gone this long without seeing him. I want to post flyers to see if anyone has information. Therefore, I need a picture. Clearly I am of no artistic ability but it’s the best I could do.”   

     “Enjolras, if you’re really worried we can call the police,” Combeferre offers as he walks into the kitchen. There are a couple of photos in his hands.   

     Taking a step back, Enjolras glares at Combeferre. “I wouldn’t trust the police with a feral dog yet alone someone as important as Grantaire. No.”   

     “What about trying to find him online?” Courfeyrac tries. It’s hopeful and optimistic because maybe Enjolras isn’t making this person up but he’s met with the same glare as if his suggestion was as offensive as Combeferre’s. He looks to Combeferre with wide, confused eyes as Enjolras stares at the paper. In his anger he clenches the edges, then tries desperately to smooth them out.   

     Thought crosses Combeferre’s face. He takes a step towards Enjolras to get his attention. “Where did you last see him, Enjolras?”   

     “At the train station,” he answers immediately. He gives Combeferre a look like he should have known that already. The frustration fades to a more thoughtful look. “Perhaps he went somewhere. He could be going to Italy. He loves renaissance art and there is no finer collection than Florence. I can write my father to see if we have contacts there.”   

     “Before that. Where did you see him before that?”   

     Enjolras thinks for a moment. “At the Musain.”   

     “The Musain?”   

     “Yes. You were there, Courf.” Enjolras carefully hangs the paper back in it’s place on the fridge, running his hands along the crinkled edges. There are fingerprint smudges and bends in the paper that mark the time Enjolras has spent staring at the crude drawing.   

     This man has to be real because Enjolras wouldn’t be this sick over a made up person. Courfeyrac focuses his mind to find the memory. “When?”   

     “When we got into that fight. Remember? I got these stitches." He runs a finger along the small scar on his forehead. "But it would have been much worse if Grantaire hadn’t stepped in. He is a marvelous boxer. We would be wise to take a few lessons before the confrontation.”   

     Courfeyrac sighs, looking apologetically at his friend. “I don’t remember him.”   

     “Yes you do,” Enjolras corrects. He spends another moment straightening the picture before turning back to them. The cold look in his eyes is torn by the confusion that maybe, just maybe he’s wrong. “He is your friend. He is our friend.”   

     “I don’t know him. I’m sorry.”   

     “Why are you being cruel?” Enjolras suddenly shouts. The force that he hits the counter with his hands makes both Combeferre and Courfeyrac jump. “Did he ask you to do this?”   

     “No. No!” Courfeyrac yells back, more desperate than angry. “Enjolras, I don’t know who you are talking about."   

     “He is angry at me but that gives him no right to pull something like this. I find no amusement in this joke. Only anger and concern. You tell him that when you see him.”   

     “Why would he be mad at you?” Combeferre asks him in a gentle tone, aiming to calm his anger and Courfeyrac’s growing worry. He puts a hand on Enjolras’ arm but the other man takes a step away. In all of their years together, Enjolras has never flinched away from him. It hurts more than he can express and his hands shake against the need to grab him but he keeps a safe distance. He feels lost without knowing where his place is to Enjolras.    

     “It is of no importance because it will not happen again.” He runs his hands through his hair, knocking the tie out a second time. His words are short and sharp. “If he would only show himself then I can explain it. I know more now.”   

     “Know more about what?” Combeferre pushes. Optimistically Enjolras can explain this all to them as a big, frightening but ultimately simple misunderstanding. Realistically he can convince Courfeyrac that it's time to consider professional help.    

     “I know what it will take, what we need to be successful this time. We spoke of this at the meeting, Ferre.”   

     “I’m sorry, I was distracted the last meeting. What will we need?”   

     “An overwhelming force of supporters. A strength that the Guard will be unable to contain.” He shuts his eyes against the flashes of dead bodies. The smell of coffee fades in a gust of smoke and gunpowder. In an attempt to distract himself away from the painful images, he begins to pace. When he feels the ridges of bodies under his feet, broken stones ready to be thrown, empty guns and a forgotten flag, he has to do more. Feeling his friends concerned eyes on him, he smiles as confidently as he can manage. “I will be back in a moment.” To control the tremor in his hands, he folds them together. It doesn’t help. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”   

     He disappears into his room where he has the privacy to press his palms against his temples, to push the memories away and find reality in the moment. It doesn’t work so he steps out onto the fire escape where the cold pushes the pain away because at least he knows the cold is real. He needs Grantaire. He needs to know the man is alive, the man is safe and untainted by Enjolras’ mistakes. He needs to know why he followed him. Grantaire could have gone unnoticed, could have survived. But everyone died. Everyone died because they followed Enjolras, trusted Enjolras, believed Enjolras. He puts his hands on the railing, resisting the immediately urge to step away when the cold metal digs into his skin. The ridges of the rusted fire escape cut against his bare feet and the cold wind blows the curls off his neck. Maybe if he stays out here long enough, he can finally sleep peacefully.   

     “I hate it when he speaks to us like that,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre as he steps towards the cracked bedroom door. “It’s like we’ve never seen him naked. Like we aren’t an integrated part of his life already.” He knits his brow as he peeks through the door, then pushes it open. Tilting his head, he points out, “It’s snowing outside.”   

     Combeferre glances to him, then goes back to looking through the photos he had brought over. “Yeah, so?”   

     “He’s standing outside.”  

     “What?” Combeferre drops the pictures and joins his friend to see Enjolras outside the window on the fire escape. His first thought is how it’s an untrustworthy structure. That is until he sees the snow collecting in Enjolras’ hair. His head is ducked between his arms, staring down to the alley beneath his bare feet.   

     “He’s standing outside and he’s not wearing shoes. He’s literally just wearing jeans and a t-shirt and it’s twenty degrees. It’s twenty degrees, Ferre.”   

     “Maybe he’s trying to clear his mind,” suggests Combeferre. If Enjolras knows he’s disconnecting then maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. “It looks like he’s struggling with the same hallucinations so at least they’re consistent.”   

     “A silver lining,” Courfeyrac says flatly. They stand in the doorway, watching their friend grasp at reality.   

     Enjolras hands slowly stop shaking as he grows colder. It becomes a violent shiver and that’s easer to believe than the memories that grow more vivid by the second. There’s panic from the blood, fear from the death, guilt from the shouts. The growing horror that maybe Grantaire doesn’t exist, that he isn’t in this world and Enjolras’ last punishment is to live without him. It wouldn’t be so terrible if he didn’t remember him. Enjolras got along fine for the years he had lived before remembering Grantaire. But then there is no justice for the crimes he committed. He was doing it for the right reasons, the right causes, he reminds himself. He was a good person with good intentions. Violence was the only answer. The blood of his friends. The life of his family. The hearts and souls of great children that would have grown to be great men.     

     He looks up and studies the sliver of street he can see from the alley. The people pass, unaware of how kind Combeferre was or how brave Feuilly was. Is. Is because they are alive. Tears run down his cheeks, burning his face in the frozen air. But then he sees a tall man, bundled and small in the distance across the street. He straightens. The figure is standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the building. He’s smoking. A long string of smoke trails upwards from his hand and joins the gray sky. “Grantaire,” he whispers to himself. A smile pulls through the icy tears.    

     Enjolras steps forward, his chest leaning over the railing to be as close as he can, and yells for him. His voice echoes in the streets. The man looks up. The cigarette falls from his hand. The fog of his breath stops at the familiar voice around his name. A moment passes where they stare at each other until Grantaire takes off running. Enjolras is quick to turn on his heels and start down the icy fire escape. He continues to scream for the man, begging for a moment.    

     “Enjolras!” Courfeyrac runs forward to climb out of the fire escape and follow his friend but is pulled back by Combeferre. The stairs are rusted and icy. They don’t have shoes or coats on. It’s not only dangerous but foolish to follow him.   

     “Come on, we may be able to catch him.” They shove on their boots, then pull on their jackets as they run down the stairs at a dangerous speed. It's only a fraction safer than the fire escape. Enjolras slips on a patch of ice on the ground as he turns from the stairs but stays upright and runs as fast as he can to where he saw Grantaire. A taxi slams into his legs, blaring the horn and yelling something foreign. He only smacks the hood of the car and glares at the driver before running after Grantaire because he just saw Grantaire. His friends are alive and Grantaire is here. That’s all he needs.    

     He turns on instinct, chasing the quickly fading memory, blurry from the distance. The flashes of blood on his face, the silence of the failed barricade, the weight of Grantaire’s hand in his own. It all grows stronger the longer he runs without Grantaire in sight.    

     In the lobby, Combeferre stumbles off the last day and Courfeyrac slips on a patch of ice. The winter air hits them with an unexpected force. Courfeyrac screams for Enjolras, his face growing red from the effort. Combeferre narrows his eyes against the heavy snowflakes. There are too many people, too many cars.    

     “Where did he go? Where did he go, Ferre?” Courfeyrac shouts frantically.    

     “He’s not wearing shoes so he couldn’t have gotten far,” he says with a forced calm as he thinks through the most logical plan. “You go left. I’ll go right. Head up ten blocks, then meet back in the middle.”   

     They separate, both screaming for Enjolras through the bitter air, crowded city, and dense traffic. Combeferre passes Grantaire, only glancing into the alley he’s hiding in before moving on. The man presses himself into a doorframe, closing his eyes and holding his breath as best as he can in the frozen air and against the tears. His jaw trembles and he doesn’t move until the shouts for Enjolras are at least two blocks away. When he does release his breath, he sinks to the snow-covered ground and sobs.    

     It’s getting harder to breathe but Enjolras doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice that his hands are shaking, that his nose is running, that his steps are slowing. The cold air is clenching at his lungs. The snow is gathering in his hair and soaking his t-shirt. He’s scanning the other side of the street, studying faces and yelling for Grantaire when he bumps into something. Enjolras falls to the ground. He blinks, startled by the sudden change, then looks up. The air that’s left in his chest leaves when he sees the man. The spy. The inspector. The police officer turns his narrowed gaze to the shoeless boy sitting in the snow. Enjolras struggles to his feet and runs in the other direction. He speeds up when he looks over his shoulder, realizing Javert is following him.

  
———————————————————————————————————————

  
     “Shut up. Shut up!” Combeferre shouts as he drags Courfeyrac inside by the collar of his jacket. The cafe falls quiet. Musichetta narrows her eyes from behind the counter and Bossuet stands up. They’re ignored as Combeferre shoves Courfeyrac away from the door and pulls out his phone. “I’m going to call the police.”   

     Tears fill his eyes and Courfeyrac is steadily crying. He looks up to Combeferre as he sets his jaw. “I’m going to look again.”   

     “No, wait.”    

     “It’s getting dark! I’m going to look again.” The door slams shut behind him. Combeferre steps outside to watch him run down the street, then run back the other way. His screams can be heard from inside.   

     Bossuet comes outside to stand next to him. He watches Courfeyrac run around the block, shouting for Enjolras before looking to Combeferre for answers. “What’s going on?”   

     “We can’t find Enjolras.”    

     “What?”   

     “He ran off after a fucking hallucination and now we can’t find him.” Combeferre suddenly waves him off as he finally gets connected with someone who can help. He gives the woman Enjolras’ description as Courfeyrac falls on a patch of ice across the street. Bossuet pulls on his coat and hat, then runs to join him. Combeferre’s hands shake. They don’t stop as the woman gives him the name of the hospital and they don’t stop when he hangs up. As loudly as he can, he calls for Courfeyrac. He watches his hands as his friends run back. The right one is shaking far more than his left, something he finds curious and if he focuses long enough he can almost forget why they’re shaking.    

     “Did you find him?” Courfeyrac asks breathlessly.    

     “There’s someone matching his description at the hospital. Valjean’s there. I texted him to ask if he can check. Let’s go.”   

     It takes too long to get to the hospital but eventually they’re storming into the waiting room where Valjean is waiting for them. He holds up his hands to calm them, immediately stating, “He’s okay. I’ve seen him and he’s okay.”  

     “Why is he here?” Combeferre steps forward, taking the lead in the familiar environment. At his side, Courfeyrac wrings his hands together and Bossuet alternates between listening and texting the rest of their friends.    

     “He has a moderate case of hypothermia which has improved over the last few hours. Besides that, he has a few cuts and bruises but overall, he’s fine.”   

     “What’s his temperature? Did he need stitches? How long has he been here?”   

     Valjean bites back his smile at the professional demands from his intern to focus on giving him an accurate rundown. This is not the right situation to express his pride in the young man. When he answers the questions, he’s reminded why. The frighten screams from the young man still echo in his mind. “His temperature was eighty-three but is up to ninety the last time I checked, meaning it’s risen seven degrees in the four hours he’s been here. He has a few stitches, roughly thirty in total. Right now it looks much worse than it is, as I’m sure you will understand.”   

     No longer able to stand back, Courfeyrac interrupts whatever Combeferre was about to say. Valjean would guess it’s something about how eighty-three is only a degree shy of severe hypothermia or that he wouldn’t count thirty as a few when it’s about his best fried. “Can we see him?” Courfeyrac begs. “Please can we see him?”   

     “Of course.” Valjean smiles sympathetically. The young man doesn’t have a medical degree to find comfort in. As they move through the quiet halls of the hospital, Valjean prepares Combeferre for what to expect. “The doctor wants to give him another MRI and a few x-rays for some bruising on his legs but he’s waiting for Enjolras to calm down. Hopefully you can help with that.”   

     “Calm down?” Combeferre questions. The doctor nods again. His face has stayed disconcertingly neutral outside of a few reassuring looks to Courfeyrac. It’s a sign that Valjean has seen something more than he’s letting on. Fear clenches in his chest, realizing that it’s probably what Combeferre is so afraid of voicing out loud. “What do you mean?”   

     “Well, for one he isn’t speaking English.”   

     Combeferre hesitates in his steps. “What?”    

     “What is he speaking?” Courfeyrac runs his hands through his hair, then nervously starts wringing them together again.   

     “We think it’s French. Maybe Latin. A nurse who speaks the language is with him now and must be helping because she’s been in there for a while.”   

     “Enjolras doesn’t know French,” Combeferre states. “We took Spanish in school.”   

     “He sounds fluent,” is all Valjean can say without giving too much of his opinion away.   

     “Maybe that’s where he’s been disappearing to. Maybe he’s meeting up with some French guy,” Courfeyrac suggests hopefully. There are still tears running down his face.     

     “Unless that French guy is this fictitious Grantaire then I doubt it.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to be as bitter as it is but there is too much dread in what this means for him to be optimistic. Combeferre unzips his jacket before stepping into the room. The first thing he notices are the metal cuffs around Enjolras’ wrists. An older woman is sitting at his side, awkwardly holding Enjolras’ hand in both of her own. There are bandages around Enjolras’ feet, deep cuts over dark bruises down the side of his face, and several blankets over his chest. The heated blanket continues to get dislodged as he keeps testing the restraints. His eyes are closed and his head is pushed back like he’s in some incredible pain. The worst of it, Combeferre realizes, is that he sounds like he’s speaking French with the nurse. She speaks like she’s piecing words together so maybe Enjolras just picked it up from somewhere because he would have known if his best friend spoke French.   

     The nurse is asking something in a gentle tone that Courfeyrac immediately trusts but Enjolras shakes his head, tears falling from his squeezed eyes.   

     “What is he saying?” Combeferre asks in a whisper as he moves to the other side of the bed. At his voice, Enjolras lifts his head up. He frantically searches the room before dropping his head back to the pillow when he finds his friend. His first reaction is a short smile, a shuddering sigh of relief as he pulls futilely at the metal handcuffs. “Hey Enjolras.”   

     “Ferre,” Enjolras calls through his tears. He pleads for something, pulling at his cuffs again, and closing his eyes. When Combeferre runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead, Enjolras move into the touch, making a wounded noise in the back of his throat.    

     The nurse steps back to let Courfeyrac take the other hand but she doesn’t leave. “I think he’s asking you to let him out of the restraints.”   

     “Can we? He’s not a threat to anyone.” Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras’ hand with both of his own. It’s an awkward position but it’s a lifeline to Enjolras that he’ll fight to keep.    

     Combeferre doesn't stop take his hand away from Enjolras’ curls as he reads a few of the machines. “Why is he cuffed anyway?”    

     “He fought off the police,” explains Valjean. “They said they had to use a good deal of force to finally subdue him, which explains most of his injuries. I know the officer’s name that brought him in. Seen it before on reports. He’s known for using excessive force.”   

     “Why did he fight off the police? What did he do?” Torn between looking at Valjean for the answer but not wanting to leave Enjolras’ face in case he opens his eyes, Courfeyrac turns his shoulder to glance between them. Enjolras’ fingers tighten around his own so he decides on letting the doctor speak to his back.   

     Valjean clears his throat, forcing himself to ignore the rising anger. “Ran.”   

     Combeferre looks up from where he was studying the stitched cuts on Enjolras’ face. “What?”   

     “He ran. That’s all. He ran and they thought it was suspicious. Once they caught him, which wasn’t hard given the length of time he was outside, he fought back.” Valjean takes a deep breath. It doesn’t settle his growing frustration but it calms him enough to hide it from the frightened children depending on him. “At first he was going to be charged for assaulting a police officer but they brought him here because they were concerned about his mental state.”   

     “They can release him now,” Courfeyrac decides. “He’s not crazy, he’s just confused and we can take care of him.”   

     When the man doesn’t agree, doesn’t say anything at all, Combeferre turns to face him. For a long minute, Valjean’s sober gaze stays on Enjolras, his face pinched against some unknown pain as he shifts uncomfortably on the bed. He finally meets Combeferre’s glare. The silence is enough to confirm all of Combeferre’s worst fears. He nods his understanding, swallows down the rising tears, and turns back to his best friend. Carefully, he brushes a few loose strands of hair off his forehead. “Can we give him a sedative? Certainly it would allow the doctor to take the necessary x-rays and could give him the rest needed to stabilize his temperature.”   

     It’s nothing more than an excuse to give his friend a merciful break from the demon's he’s fighting against. Valjean has no argument. All they needed was permission from his emergency contacts. Before he can nod, Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre with narrowed eyes. The look is more confused than angry but there’s no doubt that that emotion is boiling just underneath each breath. When he speaks, Valjean prays they don’t clash loudly enough to get themselves kicked out of the hospital. “Why are you going to sedate him?” Courfeyrac asks. “We should be getting him home.”   

     “He’ll have to stay a few days for observation anyway,” Combeferre explains. He sits down on the other side of the bed, keeping his hand threaded through Enjolras’ curls. Valjean waits before finding the doctor, staying in case they need a second opinion or a mediator. The sedative would be his suggestion as well, both as a doctor who has treated Enjolras before and as someone with a personal connection to the poor kid. Sleep would not only help his body heal from the shock of the last few hours but also give him a break from the fear, pain, and confusion of whatever illness is battling for control. Sleep builds strength against mental illnesses.   

     With Combeferre and Courfeyrac here now, Enjolras should settle down. Just a few minutes with his best friends has allowed Enjolras to calm down significantly. Valjean isn’t surprised. But the silent tears that drop from the corners of Enjolras’ eyes don’t make anyone feel better. He stares blankly at the ceiling above him, breathing heavy and fingers tight around Courfeyrac’s hand. When Courfeyrac speaks, he turns his head towards that side of the bed but doesn’t look to him. “Why can’t we take him home? After the x-rays there’s no reason for him to be here. He hates hospitals. Let’s just take him home, Ferre.”   

     “If I thought we could help him at home, then I’d agree.” Combeferre lowers his voice. He turns to Courfeyrac to keep his attention. “But I think it’s time to consider that we may be out of our depth here.”   

     Courfeyrac glares at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”   

     “I think it’s time to get him some professional help. An evaluation, that’s all. If we have a better understanding of what’s going on, then we can do more to help.”   

     “He’s not crazy,” Courfeyrac snaps.   

     “But he may be sick.” It’s said loud enough to force Courfeyrac to flinch. Enjolras closes his eyes. Valjean wonders if he understands what is being discussed over him or if, like his words, his thoughts are caught up in the old French language as well. He hopes he’s missing it. He hopes Enjolras doesn’t understand, notice, or realize just how painful this is to watch for everyone. Of all the things he’s battling, let guilt not be one. With Courfeyrac convinced, or at least no longer fighting him, Combeferre turns his focus back to Enjolras. In an incredibly gentle touch, he wipes the tears from the corner of Enjolras’ eyes before they can drop to the stitches littering the side of his face.    

     “I’ll speak to the doctor about the sedative, Combeferre.” Valjean squeezes Enjolras’ ankle, forcing himself to ignore the leather cuff keeping him trapped, before leaving. In the hall, the officer who brought Enjolras in is waiting patiently. He straightens when he sees Valjean. Flashes of Enjolras’ cries echo in Valjean’s ears at the sight of the man. His bloodied face and blue fingers, the clatter of the metal as he pulls desperately at the handcuffs distract Valjean from the promise of finding the doctor. A fire sparks in his chest.  _Javert_. He narrows his eyes on the man who at least has the audacity to look cautious, with his hat respectably in his hands. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough. “What happened to his legs?”    

     The officer opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”   

     “His legs. How did he get the bruises on his legs? What could you have possibly done, slammed him against your car? Why?” Valjean’s voice rises. “The poor boy is half-frozen and terrified. Why cause so much damage?”   

     Nothing in Javert’s response mimics Valjean’s sharp judgements and his misinformed accusations. There is only an exhausted sigh that speaks for the years forgotten between them. “I don’t think you understand just how difficult it was for me to get him in the car, doctor.”   

     “So the stitches he has are justified? Was it to teach him a lesson or punish him for trying to run? Are you trying to make an example out of him?” Valjean takes a step closer. The hair rises on the back of his neck, his hands curl into fists. He can’t remember the last time he got into a fight. The memory is clouded by Enjolras’ foreign screams. “Are the bruises you gave him in the name of the greater good?”    

     “Yes,” the officer says simply. He seems unfazed by the slow but unmistakably threatening steps that close the gap between them. Where Javerts’ shoulders stay straight and his gray eyes give the appearance of cold disinterest, there is nothing defensive about his position. He did the best he could. He won’t apologize for that because Enjolras is alive. It’s more than he could say for the rebellion. “I grabbed the back of his shirt before he ran into the street. I would rather him fall to the ground than be hit by a car. At least then I could try to control his fall as much as I could.”   

     Valjean clenches his jaw as he considers the response. Thought, guilt, and fear flashes through his eyes as he glares at Javert. A quiet minute passes before he drops his scowl and forgives the stranger with the quiet reminder that Enjolras is safe. Bruised and cut, scared and sick but safe. “He could have froze to death,” Valjean tells the officer. In the way he would soften news to a heartbroken, terrified family, he justifies the other injuries. “Pneumonia and infections can’t be ruled out yet but they don’t look likely. An hour longer and he could have died. He probably would have died.”   

     “I wish that wasn’t the case.” Javert gives him a short, bitter smile. Valjean stares at him, before nodding in agreement. In the space before Javert’s next question, a scream reaches through the closed door and silences the request to speak to Enjolras. When Valjean opens the door, Javert steps closer to glance inside. His heart sinks, uncertain to where his place is in this young man’s life this time around. He understands the fear in Enjolras’ eyes once he recognized him and wishes there was a way to comfort that well-earned assumption away because this time it’s different. Javert is different. He knows more this time and there’s an odd desire to convince Enjolras of that. Before he can place the motive, a nurse passes him and gives him a better sight of the hospital room.    

     It’s a hard thing to see, Enjolras chained to the bed where he tries futilely at the cuffs. The clanging metal mimics his screams. Javert shuts his eyes against the sight of the old man on top of the barricade, the kid pinned against the wall, the children lined up in the mud. The ropes scratch against his wrists.    

     The calm, English demands are drastic enough against the terrified French to clear Javert’s vision. Combeferre is standing over Enjolras, trying to get his attention as Enjolras screams something foreign. Javert glances around the faces in the room, cringing sympathetically when he realizes none of them understand that Enjolras is begging them to find  _their little poet_. He wants to step forward and say something, to remind Enjolras of the year, of the time they have. He wants to shake Valjean until he remembers. But before he can convince himself that he could actually help, Combeferre wraps his hands around Enjolras’ neck. The intimate hold forces Enjolras to look at him. Combeferre speaks calmly and clearly, just loud enough for Enjolras to hear him without yelling himself. It’s strong, reliable. Javert can’t help but smile and nod a silent praise to both children when Enjolras stops yelling to focus on him.    

     “Enjolras, listen to me. Take deep breaths. Do it, Enjolras,” Combeferre commands a little louder, catching the way Enjolras tries to look around the room and demanding him to do as he’s told. “Slow breaths, deep breaths and then tell me what’s wrong. In English, Enjolras. Tell me in English and I can help you.”    

     Enjolras studies his friend’s face for a long moment, his own pinched in something just on the edge of expressionless. His hands still, his chest heaves against the calming panic as he seems to finally accept something. Only the slightest show of discomfort sits in the lines of his face. “Prouvaire,” he finally says. His jaw tightens around the name, his lips press together in an attempt to fight the tears that catch in his throat. Javert swallows. He reminds himself of the year. “Jehan Prouvaire. They have him.”   

     Combeferre’s brow knits despite his attempt to remain neutral. He looks to Courfeyrac, who shakes his head and shrugs his own confusion, then back to Enjolras who is watching him closely. Against everything he was hoping for, the thing that has brought his best friend to horrified screams is once again a delusion. How long will it take before Enjolras is functioning in this reality again? Realizing that it may never happen, Combeferre coughs on silent tears of his own. Now is not the time to indulge his own fear. With his thumb, he wipes a tear away from the corner of Enjolras’ eye. It’s the quiet, comforting action that gives him time to decide if he should immediately reassure his friend, blame it on whatever is stealing his mind, or try and get Enjolras to see it for himself. Not wanting to upset him any more, and desperate to keep his place at Enjolras’ side, Combeferre can’t bring himself to say what he sees happening. Maybe he’s missing something. Maybe Enjolras isn’t sick. “Who?” Combeferre asks gently. “Who has him?”   

     “The Guard. I don’t know how but he ended up on the wrong side, Ferre.” He shuts his eyes against the memory, demanding every critical detail. “They’re going to kill him. The spy is not enough. The trade doesn’t work.” When he opens his eyes again, he tries to sit up. Realizing he’s stuck, he looks to Combeferre. “They kill him, Ferre,” Enjolras repeats in a shaky whisper.    

     He shakes his head. “No one is going to kill him.”   

     “They kill him!” He screams loudly, trying to sit up again. The metal snaps against the plastic bedrails, rattling the bed and cutting into his wrists. Combeferre flinches back right before their heads connect. He moves just enough, avoiding a broken nose without losing his physical connection with Enjolras, refusing to let go because Enjolras’ tears are catching between his fingers.    

     “Okay, okay, Enjolras.” He softens his voice. Enjolras looks to him, eyes glistening with tears and trust. For a moment, it startles Combeferre. He hadn’t expected to have Enjolras’ attention, Enjolras’ faith so easily. The relief of being someone familiar to his best friend is completely glassed over by the fear of fucking up. What is he supposed to do? How does he respond to the death and panic that is overwhelming Enjolras' mind? How does he reassure him of something that's not real? Not knowing what to do, he falls back on the things he knows. Make a plan, comfort the fear. “Okay, E. We’ll get him, okay? Courfeyrac will get him. We’ll get him here so you can see. Jehan is safe. Everyone is safe.”    

     “I’m not leaving,” Courfeyrac whispers in his defense. He leans towards Combeferre, trying to stay without upsetting Enjolras. The last thing he wants is to hear that scream wrapped around his best friend’s voice again. He’d happily kill if that meant protecting Enjolras but he’s not leaving this hospital room until he's dragged away.  

     “Just text him, then,” Combeferre snaps. Almost immediately he glances to Enjolras. He's staring at Combeferre’s chest, eyes flickering in thought as he tries to sort through the bloody hallucinations. Turning back to Courfeyrac, Combeferre softens his tone. “Or get Bossuet to find him. He may even be in the waiting room now. Just find him. Please?”   

     Courfeyrac takes a long look at Enjolras before nodding and takes off to the waiting room at a dangerous speed. His footsteps can be heard down the hall. In the few minutes he’s gone, Combeferre’s gentle reminders and constant attention manages to convince Enjolras to lie back on the pillow. Enjolras’ eyes start to close, his breathing settles, and his bloodied wrists rest beside the bedrail, fists unclenched but fingers trembling. Valjean quietly searching the cabinets for bandages and Javert watches, waiting for the right moment to step in. When Courfeyrac returns, he’s out of breath from running with Joly on his heels. Before speaking, he drops into the chair beside the bed and intertwines his fingers with Enjolras’s.    

     “He’s on his way,” he promises. There's a smile that goes unseen by Enjolras. After squeezing Combeferre’s shoulder and nodding to Valjean, Joly moves silently through the room to study the machines and examine the stitches in the same routine Combeferre had. Courfeyrac bends to kiss Enjolras’ fingers, hoping for some response. “Jehan should be here in about fifteen minutes, at the most.”   

     “Good. Thank you.” Combeferre doesn’t stop brushing the same few curls off of Enjolras’ face. It’s a steady, slow comfort full of reliable touches with a remarkable effect. Valjean wants to believe Combeferre’s the reason the whole room feels calmer, that it's his presence, his confidence that has them convinced the situation is being handled. But they all know that it’s because Enjolras is finally drifting off to sleep and to some semblance of peace. For however long he sleeps, they know there won’t be foreign shouts, confused fears, or angry screams full of tears and panic.    

     Over the last few weeks, the situation has only increased in complications with complex layers of pain that is all far, far out of their reach of understanding let alone handling. Valjean can pretend Combeferre has conquered whatever Enjolras is fighting for the time being but he knows it’s not a real solution. It’s just sleep. A delusion of peace. He misses Courfeyrac’s fight and wishes he would have fought harder to get Enjolras released. Maybe then they could convince themselves that it was simply Valjean and Combeferre's medical schooling making them nervous, paranoid. If it only lasted a day, those brief hours of disillusion would have been blissful.    

     “Is he asleep?” Joly asks softly. The sudden sound fills the room. The boy is gently examining the wrappings on Enjolras’ wrist with soft, capable fingers. Valjean reminds himself of Joly’s expertise in research despite his age and the strides he’s made that are often unheard of for twenty-two. He wonders how many hours Joly’s put in to looking through Enjolras’ medical files. Add the hours Combeferre has unquestionably spent and they can fill a lifetime with biological nightmares.    

     Combeferre nods. He looks exhausted, even compared to Enjolras asleep next to him. “It was that or a sedative.”   

     Joly silently agrees with a glance to Valjean. Before he steps back from the bed, he squeezes Enjolras’ arm and thanks Courfeyrac for letting go long enough for him to look. Despite the damage he managed to do with the cuffs, Enjolras won’t need stitches. The shallow albeit layered cuts are better than what the police had to do to get him out of the blizzard. The officer standing by the door seems out of place but he’s here for a reason. He’s standing like he has a place in this darker moment of their lives. Joly isn’t sure what to make of it but he doesn’t like the image of the large man pinning down Enjolras in the snow and blood.    

     “Almost everyone is in the waiting room,” Joly tells his friends. His voice stays soft, barely above a whisper. Enjolras is asleep but just barely. He shifts every so often on the pillow when they speak, as if he’s trying to follow their conversation even in sleep. “I’ve told them the basics. The reason he’s here but not why they’re keeping him or when he’ll be released. I wanted to get a better understanding of what you’d like me to tell them.”   

     Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other. There’s an innocent flash of misunderstanding before they realize why Joly is asking. Valjean can almost hear their hearts sinking. It’s as close as they’ve gotten to voicing their greatest fears but the most logical explanation. Courfeyrac doesn’t answer. He only pushes his chair out so he can rest his chin on the bedrail, keeping his eyes on Enjolras’ face. Joly waits patiently for Combeferre to swallow down the dread and fear, the anger and uselessness.    

     “Thank you.” He has to pause when the next words catch in his throat. After running a hand under his glasses, he turns back to Joly but can’t quite look him in the eyes. “Feel free to tell them the truth. As much as we know. No good will come from sugar-coating it.”   

     “I’ll keep them updated. Do you want me to bring Jehan by when he gets here?”   

     “Yes please.” Combeferre bites his bottom lip. It’s sharp enough to draw blood. He feels like he’s betraying Enjolras. His chest feels cold, his skin dry. His lungs are tight against each breath and a shiver leaves his hands shaking. “Tell them that we’re going to look into getting him some professional help.”   

     A small smile twitches on Joly’s face, the only sign of agreement before Courfeyrac sits up. The bitter smile falls to something more cautiously neutral. “He’s not crazy,” Courfeyrac states. It’s almost robotic sounding with the strength of his belief but the uncertainty of his argument. “He’s not crazy, Ferre, he’s just confused. They’re not taking him away.”   

     “No one is taking him away,” Combeferre is quick to reassure him. His voice stays softer but he grows more confident with Courfeyrac’s defense. “But if he is sick, there are medications and therapies we can try that may help.”   

     “I know a few doctors I can recommend,” Valjean offers.    

     Courfeyrac looks to the older man, then to the officer and Joly. Panic flashes in his eyes when he leans closer to Combeferre. “Promise me no one will take him away.”   

     “Take him away? No one is taking him away, Courfeyrac. It’s just a mental evaluation.” Combeferre still has his hand on Enjolras’ forehead, a comforting weight for them both. “We have to admit that there is something wrong, that he needs help.”   

     “Promise me, Ferre,” Courfeyrac begs in a whisper. “Promise me they won’t take him away.”   

     “Over my dead body.” He doesn’t break eye contact, letting Courfeyrac measure the strength of his promise. There’s no other comment on the topic. Courfeyrac concedes, dropping his chin to the bedrail once again to watch Enjolras’ little stirs as he sleeps. After a deep breath, Combeferre gives Joly a short smile. “Tell them whatever they want to know. E will need all of the support we can offer him. Thank you.”    

     Joly squeezes Courfeyrac’s shoulder in an apology before leaving. They trust him to handle any question their friends may have. The answers are limited but they have a plan now, a step closer to a solution. Combeferre doesn’t feel any better.    

     Javert steps forward, ready to ask to speak to the boy alone because Enjolras isn’t crazy. He just remembers. The memories shouldn’t make this life impossible to live. They should make it better, make it easier. The good seems brighter and the black never seems as dark. Peace is what Javert can give him.    

     But before he can, a door slams. The echo reaches down the hall and shifts through the room, loud enough to give the sensation of a breeze moving through them. Enjolras wakes up with a start, kicking his legs and pulling at the handcuffs in the same way one would in the midst of a dream where they’re falling. His eyes immediately narrow on Javert, standing at the foot of the bed and ignores or doesn't notice the way his two friends flinch back. He sits up as much as he can on the bed, eyes never leaving the officer. There's an eery calm in the room for several long breaths before Enjolras shuts his eyes, pulls up his fists, and yells. It's a long, painful scream from the depth of his chest. His face grows red. His neck strains. Tears run down his face. "No!" The single word rips through his chest and into the room, the hall, the years. Wrecked. Rough. Broken. It matches the emotion behind it.    

     “No!” He opens his eyes to glare at Javert. The heat behind his anger forces Javert to take a step back as if he could break through the metal by sheer force of will. “Why didn't they wait? Why didn't they trade?” His voice raises and the words seem more powerful, fiercer. The pure wrath promises death. “They killed you! They killed you both with that bullet!”   

     There’s a short scuffle where Combeferre stumbles out of his chair in a haste to get to the cabinets stocked with medical supplies. His jaw is set, his actions steady only in his need to do it right. The movement goes unnoticed by the screaming patient. The strength that he uses to pull at the cuffs looks just a fraction shy of being able to break free and follow through with his threat. Courfeyrac is yelling to get his attention, adding to the fear and panic in the room. Streaks of tears color both his and Enjolras’ cheeks.    

     “You’d be liable,” Valjean explains as he pulls Combeferre away from the cabinet. He knows what the boy is doing, agrees with him. When he pulls out the syringe and the sedative, Courfeyrac takes a step back. Enjolras doesn’t let Javert out of his sight, doesn’t take in anything else around him until Combeferre carefully forces his head back to the pillow. It’s a quick, well-practiced routine. Combeferre keeps Enjolras still, despite the fight and the screams to free himself, and Valjean injects the needle through a vein in his neck.

     It doesn't kick in immediately but Combeferre keeps him down with his arms around Enjolras' neck, his weight pinning Enjolras' shoulders to the bed. Enjolras still fights him, thrashing as best as he possibly can, screaming on the top of his lungs for Jehan and _the death of the spy_. When he starts to lose strength, Combeferre presses their foreheads together, cupping his face gently with both hands. His own eyes are closed. Tears fall under his dislodged glasses. He doesn't say anything as Enjolras sobs and he stays like that, keeps them close, even after Enjolras finally falls still to the sedative. Courfeyrac is hiding in both of his hands, his fingers pulling at his hair as he cries. When Enjolras stops fighting, when Enjolras stops everything, Courfeyrac falls back to the bed to grab his best friend's hand. Blood seeps through the fresh bandages.

     Javert takes another step back, unnoticed by the others. He turns down the hospital hall and disappears. There is no understanding. Not when it comes from  _the spy_. He leaves the haunted young man to the ones he trusts. There is no better place for Enjolras than in the hands of his lieutenants.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really working harder on getting better at posting more frequently! Now that I'm back in college and working two jobs I can't promise that I'll get better but I'm still trying! Promise! And yelling at me on tumblr always helps. Also, I used some french but I'm not one hundred percent sure that it's right. If it's not, I'm sorry! Anyway, hopefully you enjoy!

         The side of his face feels tight. He squeezes his eyes, stretching his jaw until he feels the familiar tug of stitches and Combeferre's voice to stop messing with them echoes in his mind. Enjolras shifts on the pillow without opening his eyes. He’s not sure where he is or why he can’t remember but he knows he’s not quite ready to find out. Something doesn’t feel right. His legs are sore and his right knee is wrapped tightly. His feet are throbbing, untrustworthy if he had to move. There may also be tape or bandages covering the soles of his feet but he can’t be sure. What if the revolution failed still but Grantaire didn't wake up? Maybe they didn't kill him, locking him up forever in a prison until he slowly loses his mind.    

     His shoulders are stiff, a result from the uncomfortable bed he thinks, meaning he's been here a while. There’s something stinging in his hand, something else is pinching his finger. When he shifts on the thin mattress, joints and muscles crack. He’s wearing a hospital gown, that he’s certain of. The material is thin and scratchy, the creases easy to feel without having to move much. So if it's prison they're going to keep him alive.   

     But the hand in his own is familiar. It’s warm. The grip is tight and secure. A calloused finger runs a steady line on the inside of his palm, tracing the lines on his hand and it’s easy to tell himself who it is. Enjolras smiles. His shoulders sink heavier into the bed with relief. His leg doesn’t seem to hurt as much and he forgets about the stitches on his face. He doesn’t have to worry about his mobility with his aching feet. The warmth of the hand holding his own eases the chill under Enjolras’ skin that runs through his chest to his spine. Finally. He can't be in jail, not if Grantaire is with him.  _Finally_. The comfort suddenly threatens to overwhelm him. How long has it been since he’s had Grantaire by his side? Months, years? It feels like a lifetime and then some. He feels his bottom lip start to tremble and he forces himself to open his eyes. The threat of losing complete control is worth seeing Grantaire’s smile.    

     It takes a minute for his eyes to focus his vision. The room is dimly lit. Most of the light comes from the flashing machines he’s attached to. Frowning, he turns to find Grantaire. Disappointment fills his chest when he sees Jehan smiling at him. Jehan, who is safe and alive. Jehan, who is holding his hand. Jehan who is not Grantaire. Anger and confusion fills his mind, just barely hiding the fear. Tears settle at the bottom of his eyes.   

     Enjolras struggles to pull himself up. There’s a heavy sensation in his blood, something keeping him slow and sluggish. He doesn’t trust it. His reaction time is delayed, his thoughts clouded. His feet taped. Panic starts to build. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t know where Grantaire is. He doesn’t know where his friends are. Maybe Jehan wasn’t the only one caught by the Guard. Before he can question any of it, Jehan pushes a button and the bed is shifting under him. It startles him at first until he realizes his world is better supported this way. He lets out a heavy breath, then looks to his friend. “Thank you.”   

     “Would you like some water?” Jehan asks. His voice is quiet, belonging in the silent room. He places a bottle of water in Enjolras’ hand but it’s ignored in exchange for a study of the place around him. It’s a bare, unspectacular hospital room without the usual balloons, cards, extra-large stuffed animals with their get well wishes. There are no pieces of his friends. No jackets, no books. It’s cold and lonely. The silence of death hangs around him. The National Guard’s boots echo in the empty café. He shivers.    

     “Where is Grantaire?” He asks suddenly, still looking for any part of his family surrounding him. His legs hurt but they’re not broken. His face is stitched and bruised. Even though he can’t see them, he can tell that they aren’t deep enough to be the reason he’s here. Maybe he hit his head. There are stiff bandages around each of his wrists, tight and thick. His frown deepens. Needing the warmth of Grantaire at his side, he asks again. “Can I see him?”   

     Jehan doesn’t respond until Enjolras is looking at him. He raises his eyebrows. “Can you?”   

     “What?”   

     “Can you see him? Is he in the room now?”   

     Enjolras tilts his head. He looks around the small, heartless hospital room, then turns back to Jehan and glares. It doesn’t feel right being angry at the young poet. “No. There’s no one else in the room.”   

     Before Jehan can respond, the door opens. Combeferre and Courfeyrac walk into the room with large coffees in their hands and the cautious steps of expecting someone to be asleep. When they see Enjolras not only awake but sitting up, the first thing they do is share a look with Jehan. Enjolras’ brow knits as he tries to interpret the look because they seem more worried than relieved. There’s a thick tension in the air dividing the room between Enjolras and his friends. It breaks when Jehan smiles but doesn’t dissipate. “He’s been up for about ten minutes. Talking for about two minutes.”    

     Combeferre moves to the other side of the room. He smiles at Enjolras, pausing to kiss his forehead before studying the flashing machines. A clock catches Enjolras’ eye behind Combeferre, reading well after midnight. He chews the inside of his cheek. The blankets around his legs tighten and Enjolras jumps at the sudden threat of feeling trapped until he sees it’s just Courfeyrac sitting on the foot of his bed. Courfeyrac grins at him, the first sincere smile he’s seen since he woke up. Enjolras wants to respond equally but it comes across more like a confused grimace. He can’t seem to pull in all the details of the room at once. When Courfeyrac rests a hand on his left leg, Enjolras’ first instinct is to shift closer to him.

     Courfeyrac grins at the response. “How are you feeling?”    

     “What happened?” That’s more important than how he feels.   

     The warm, heartfelt smile drops. The tension in the room divides them once again. Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre to answer. The intern turns away from the machines to sit on a chair. He takes a long moment to shift as close to Enjolras as he can. As the seconds pass, Enjolras can feel his jaw clenching tighter the longer he takes. Before Combeferre speaks, he puts the coffee cup down and collects Enjolras’ hand in both of his own. “What’s the last thing you remember?”   

     “Grantaire,” he answers immediately. Courfeyrac’s concerned look with Jehan catches his attention. Enjolras narrows his eyes at them before turning back to Combeferre. “Is he here?”   

     “No. I’m sorry, he’s not.” Combeferre glances down to their hands for several long breaths. He traces the outline of the tape keeping the intravenous needle in Enjolras’ hand. When he looks up again, his eyes are clear. He studies Enjolras carefully. Enjolras leans closer, anxious to hear what’s so hard to say. The lack of comfort between them is strange, painful. Maybe Grantaire isn't okay. Combeferre opens his mouth, considers his words, then closes his mouth again. He looks to Courfeyrac, then Jehan. They’re both hanging onto what he’s going to say, as if taking notes and preparing for a future of difficult answers. After a deep breath, Combeferre turns back to Enjolras. He gives him a short smile. “You ran out into a snowstorm in only a t-shirt and jeans.”   

     Enjolras nods slowly, remembering that. He can feel the same urgency rushing through his veins. “To get to Grantaire.”   

     Combeferre licks his bottom lip before nodding. “Yes. To get to Grantaire. We estimated that you were outside for about three hours before a police officer brought you here. Over the last week, your temperature hasn’t stabilized the way we have hoped. You have about thirty stitches-”   

     “Where is Grantaire?”   

     “I don’t know. But what I do know is that you have thirty stitches and some deep bruising, especially on your legs. There are a few small fractures in you right shin but we don’t think they’ll need surgery. You might have to wear a brace for a few weeks, though.”   

     “I feel fine. Where’s Grantaire? Is he okay? He was there, in the snow.”   

     “You only feel fine because the sedative is still in your system. As soon as that wears off, you’re going to be hurting.”   

     “If you don’t know where he is, how do you know he’s okay?”   

     “Enjolras, I don’t even know if he’s real,” Combeferre snaps, his voice suddenly rising. The blunt confession leaves his breathing heavy. With an exhausted sigh, he looks down.    

     Enjolras flinches back at the statement. He narrows his eyes for a moment, then smiles. After a short laugh, he looks up to Courfeyrac and Jehan. They watch him carefully. Courfeyrac’s biting his lip, wearing it to a thin line. Jehan’s eyes are wide, sympathetic. Neither of them laugh. Enjolras clenches his jaw. Something presses down on his chest. He turns back to Combeferre. “That’s not funny.” No one laughs. Enjolras bends his neck to look Combeferre in the eye. “That’s not funny.”   

     “I’m not trying to be funny,” he says quietly. Combeferre pulls in a deep breath, holds it, then slowly releases before finally looking at Enjolras again. The solemnity of his expression sends a shudder down Enjolras’ spine. He tries to keep his jaw tight but his bottom lip trembles with more ferocity than he can control. It feels like the heel of a palm is pressing against his sternum, fingers grasping for his lungs. Combeferre shifts in his seat. He clears his throat. “This past week you’ve been in and out of coherency. We’re worried about your-”   

     “Where is Grantaire?” Enjolras interrupts. He doesn’t care what they’re worried about. Once he finds Grantaire, everything will make sense. Everything will be okay. He’ll have his friends, he’ll have Grantaire. He’ll have his life back. Combeferre drops his head again. He brings a hand to his temple, pressing against a growing frustration. “Ferre,” Enjolras pleads softly. “I want to see him. I need to talk to him.”   

     “Enjolras, we need to talk about why you’re in the hospital.”   

     He shakes his head. “I need to talk to Grantaire. I want to talk to him first.”   

     Combeferre shrugs in defeat. “I don’t know where he is.”   

     “Then I need to find him.”   

     “You need to understand why you are here. You need to know what’s going to happen.”   

     In a sudden flare of anger, Enjolras throws the water bottle across the room. Courfeyrac falls across his legs to avoid being hit. As the bottle cracks against the hospital wall, Enjolras cries out in pain. He throws his head back, his screams matching the shrill screech of a machine as Courfeyrac frantically scrambles, trying to push himself up. Combeferre is quick to move, pulling the back of Courfeyrac’s shirt so hard that he almost falls off the bed. He makes sure Courfeyrac stays on his feet before shutting off the screaming machine and turning to Enjolras. The man is thrashing on the bed, his eyes shut and his hands pulling at the sheets under him, screaming for Grantaire. He needs control. He needs Grantaire.    

     There are two hands on his face. He shoves them off, pushes them away, swings a fist. He’s trapped, pinned against the wall. Grantaire’s at his feet. He fights the hands against him. If he can get free, he can get to Grantaire. Enjolras kicks his feet, screaming for Grantaire. For Combeferre. For anyone that can help. For his family. He arches his back, pressing his head into the wall as hard as he can because maybe he can break free that way. Maybe he can disappear.    

     There are hands on his wrists. Thumbs dig into the cuts. He tries to pull his hands down, then push the man off of him. Something rips across his hand. There’s screaming, yelling. They call his name. They compare him to a flower. Their guns hesitate. He feels the wet trickle of blood running down his wrist, over the hands holding him down. He wonders whose it is. Their guns drop. The blanket tangles in his legs. He yells at them to kill him. He asks them to kill him. His hand is empty. He pleads, cries, begs them to kill him because if Grantaire is at his feet, then Grantaire is already dead. His foot connects with a body and it sends a shock down his leg. Screams crack in his throat. Tears run down his face. Then everything stops. A forehead is pressing against his own, the only familiar weight surrounding him. Fear controls his shallow breathing and his tense, trembling hands.    

     He slowly opens his eyes to see Combeferre above him. Combeferre is holding his wrists. It’s Combeferre’s knee pinning his chest and it’s Combeferre’s voice calling his name. Enjolras blinks away the tears, trying to clear his vision. Combeferre lets go of his wrist to hold out his hand to a woman by the door. Courfeyrac stands defensively between her and the bed and Jehan stands between him and the woman, quietly warning Courfeyrac against something.   

     “It’s okay, we’re okay! I’ve got it.” Combeferre turns back to him. “You’re okay, right?”   

     He trusts Combeferre so he nods.    

     “Say it. Tell them you’re okay.”   

     “I’m okay.” It sounds foreign in his voice.    

     They hold their breath until the woman reluctantly nods and closes the door. Combeferre smiles, laughing a little around a sigh of relief. Before he climbs off the bed, Enjolras quickly grabs the back of his neck. He buries his hand in his friend’s hair, keeping him close. His arm shakes from the strength of his grip. It hurts and he’s sure he’s hurting Combeferre but his friend keeps his forehead against Enjolras’ until his hands stop shaking, until the grip softens enough for him to lean back slowly. He smiles cautiously, studying Enjolras. “You’re okay. We’re okay.” He nods, saying it more to himself than to Enjolras. “We’re going to be okay.”       

     A silent sob catches in the back of Enjolras’ throat. He looks up to Combeferre with wide, pleading eyes. With a fistful of Combeferre’s shirt, he pulls him close. “I need him.”   

     Tears build in Combeferre’s eyes. He presses his lips together in a thin line. Steeling himself with a deep breath, the man nods. “Okay.” Combeferre gives him a weak, short smile. “Okay. We’ll see what we can do.” Thought flashes through his eyes. “Feuilly can look online. Right? And that officer that brought you might help. We can ask him. He might know something.”   

     “Maybe Lamarque knows a private eye or something,” Courfeyrac suggests.    

     When Enjolras looks over to him, he grins optimistically. Enjolras thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. No Lamarque is sick. He has neither the time nor the ability to help. Besides he does not know Grantaire.”    

     Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre. Enjolras hates how scared he looks. He hates how Combeferre nods and smiles placidly at him. “We’ll check up on him too, then.”    

     “Fencing,” Enjolras says suddenly. His mind is too focused on the fact that Grantaire is still missing to question his friends odd behavior. They're alive. They're safe for now. That's all that matters. “He fences. Check fencing clubs. Art studios, boxing gyms. Bars.”   

     “That’s great, thank you. We’ll look through all that. I’m going to ask Jehan to go talk to everyone. Okay? He can ask Feuilly to set it up and Bossuet can check on Lamarque.” Combeferre glances to Jehan, who smiles warmly as he stands up.   

     Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember every detail leading up that single shot. He can’t. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he lost Jehan. The shot rings out in his ears, he can feel the force of it through the alley. “No. No!” He shakes his head, hands digging through his hair. “No. No, Ferre! We can’t lose him. They don’t let us trade. We can’t lose him, Ferre! We can’t! We can’t,” He repeats it over and over again, louder and more heartbreaking every time he feels the cold reach of death brush past him to get to Jehan Prouvaire.    

     “Okay, okay Enjolras!” Combeferre pulls his hands away from his face. He whispers gently, soothingly until Enjolras looks up at him. “It’s okay. Jehan, everyone, they’re okay.”   

     “He’s okay?”   

     “Everyone’s okay. Look, Jehan’s right here. Safe and alive.” Combeferre nods. Enjolras follows his eyes to find the poet, smiling right by the bed.

     “They didn’t get you,” he breathes out in a sigh of relief. A strange sound catches in his throat, half a sob and half a laugh. He hasn’t killed his friends. Not yet. Enjolras closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Jehan’s hand on his arm. As long as that stays true, he’s going to be fine. More tears run down his cheeks. The bed shifts. Someone wipes the tears away. Enjolras moves into the touch. Maybe he can convince himself that it’s Grantaire.   

     “Hey, Enjolras. You want to talk about Grantaire, right?” Combeferre asks him calmly. His thumb wipes away another tear. Enjolras cracks his eyes open at the name. He looks to Combeferre who’s waiting. Jehan is safe. Jehan is alive. If he is alive, if everyone is still alive, then Grantaire should be sleeping in the Corinth. Alive. Enjolras looks to the other side of the room to where Courfeyrac is standing, watching him closely. Something red, then green flashes just out of view and a clock ticks to the next hour. He frowns. This is a hospital room. There are no muskets, no broken stones. There are no bodies on the table, no blood on the floor, no screams through the warm night air. Combeferre calls his name. “You want to talk about Grantaire. Right?”   

     _Finally_. “I want to see him.”   

     “Okay but first can we please talk about why you are in the hospital? I need to explain to you what’s going to happen. I need you to know what’s going on.”   

     “Then I can see him?”    

     “Then we can talk about him. I don’t know where he is.”   

     Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek, quieting the growing panic just enough to find his voice. “But someone is looking for him, right? Because he’s looking for me. He’ll find me, he always does but he doesn’t know I’m here.”    

     “Marius is out looking for him right now,” Combeferre tells him. He sits back on the edge of the bed, bringing Enjolras’ hand with him. As the man examines the short trickle of blood getting caught in the bandage, Enjolras studies his face.    

     He believes Combeferre. There’s no reason to lie to him unless he’s trying to protect him from something and even under that circumstance, a lie wouldn’t be that easy. Besides Combeferre doesn’t like to lie. Courfeyrac can only lie to police. Enjolras is that one that lies. He’s the one that convinces others to follow with the promise of a bright future, a noble cause, a willing sacrifice. A laugh escapes him when he pictures Marius. The blushing, rambling child with only a girl on his mind. Always the same girl. What good is he searching for Grantaire? The boy wouldn’t dare venture down the streets Grantaire is most comfortable in. “Marius is a fool,” Enjolras tells them. His disprovable at the choice is clear. Courfeyrac has too much faith in him.   

     “Marius is the only one that be-” Combeferre bites off his words. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand, looking up with a small smile. “You trust me right?”   

     “Of course,” he answers immediately. Along with Courfeyrac, there is no one he trusts more. It is he who is taking advantage of their trust, their loyalties. _They believed too_ , he tells himself. He was not alone in the fight. He is never alone for the fight. Except now. They don't believe him now. _Good_. Maybe it will save them.    

     “Then trust me when I say that Marius is the best person to be looking. Okay?”   

     He wants to know why they sent Marius. He wants to know where they’re searching, what timeline they’ve set up, and the results they expect. But he trusts Combeferre so he nods.    

     Combeferre must realize that’s the only reason Enjolras stays quiet but instead of challenging it, he nods as well and takes the silence as a win. He smiles briefly over his shoulder to Courfeyrac, then turns back to Enjolras. “Do you want something for the pain?”   

     “No.” It’s hard enough to sort through the flashing memories and the rolling cloud that drifts through his thoughts. There are too many of them. New ones. Different eras, different wars. He doesn’t feel strong enough to work through them clearly so he focuses on Grantaire. Grantaire is there, in every one. Right where he should be at Enjolras’ side. Enjolras looks down to the hand that intertwines with his own but frowns when he sees it’s Jehan.  _Right_. Grantaire isn’t here. Not this time.   

     “I’m going to put on the heart monitor again. It goes on your finger. It doesn’t hurt, I promise but it may be a little uncomfortable,” Combeferre is telling him. His voice sounds distant. Enjolras tries to catch his words but Grantaire isn’t there. “And I have to put the needle back in your hand. It’ll sting for a second but I have to do it. It’s to keep you hydrated and help regulate your temperature.” He must respond because Combeferre climbs off the bed and does just as he said. Enjolras doesn’t flinch at the sharp prick. It’s nothing compared to the pain from the scars on his chest. Combeferre gives him another warning. When Enjolras doesn’t say anything, too caught up each of his friends last breaths, Combeferre lifts up the blanket and examines the bruises on his legs. “Do you remember how you got these, E?”   

     Enjolras looks at him, then follows Combeferre’s gaze to his legs. The dark, inky bruises reach deep under his skin, down to the bone. He can feel them when he shifts his legs. Something blares in his ears and he flinches. A face flashes behind glass, yellow connects with bone. Courfeyrac’s hand finds his. It’s not Grantaire but the comfort is a welcomed one. “A taxi. I hit a taxi. Well he hit me. I ran into the street.” As he speaks, Combeferre moves to the foot of the bed to write something on a chart. Jehan pulls the blanket back over his legs. His presence is silent but certain. It’s similar to Grantaire’s and it tricks Enjolras into believing that if he just looks over at the right time, it’ll be Grantaire’s crooked grin instead of the poet's gentle smile. Enjolras bites at his cheek. “What happened to my chest?”   

     Courfeyrac shares a look with Combeferre, then tightens his hold on Enjolras’ hand. Combeferre sits back on the edge of the bed before addressing the question. Enjolras doesn't like his cautious approach. “Nothing happened to your chest. Not that we know of. Does is hurt?”   

     “I was shot,” Enjolras explains to them. He doesn’t hear the sharp inhale from Courfeyrac. “Grantaire too.”   

     “Let me see, okay?” Combeferre waits for the nod from Enjolras before untying the hospital gown from his shoulder. He watches Combeferre’s fingers run over his chest. A cold shiver sneaks down his spine each time Combeferre brushes over one of the eight scars. His friend studies each one, eyes searching the pale skin for damage. After a long minute, Combeferre sits back. “They’re only scrapes, E. Have you been scratching at your chest?”   

     “It happens the same way every time,” he tells them as he realizes it. The uniforms are different. The people, the guns. Grantaire is a little different, too, but it’s still Grantaire. His friends are dead on the barricade, in the field, in the valley. Different countries, different battles, each with a valiant cause Enjolras preaches for that calls for their blood. He closes his eyes, shaking his head against the sound of the drums. He can feel the red flag fall through his fingers.    

     Courfeyrac squeezes his hand. “What does?”   

     Enjolras opens his eyes. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t understand it. Why have these memories, these scars if not as a punishment for his crimes? But he was right. Maybe not the strategies, the plans, the path but it was all for the right reasons. How can he be punished for that? For sending his friends in with him? Their deaths. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the poet and the blushing Marius. Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly. Grantaire. Their deaths, he is responsible for. His deaths, he is punished for. Enjolras looks to his best friend. He doesn’t think Combeferre knows. He hopes they don’t remember. “Grantaire is there." Grantaire will remember. "He’s always there.”  

     “In France?” Courfeyrac asks eagerly. He looks up something on his phone before asking, “Grantaire est en France?”   

     “Je ne le pense pas. Je l'ai vu dans mon appartement. Dans la neige.” He narrows his eyes off to the side of the room as he thinks. “Nous ne sommes pas en France. Est-ce vrai?”   

     “We don’t speak French, Enjolras,” Combeferre tells him firmly. Before Enjolras can say anything, before he can point out that Courfeyrac just spoke French, poorly but French nonetheless, Combeferre demands his attention. “We have to talk about what’s going to happen, remember?”   

     “Then we can talk about Grantaire.” He needs to see Grantaire.   

     “Yes.”   

     “Can I go home?” Enjolras asks before Combeferre can continue, unable to stick to the plan. The cold hospital room, the cautious looks on his best friends faces are threatening to break him. He needs something familiar and warm. “Grantaire knows my home. He doesn’t know I’m here.”    

     “No. You can’t go home yet.”   

     “I need to find Grantaire.” Enjolras moves his legs, trying to gage how steady he’d be on his feet. The tape is too tight, too thick around his knee to allow it to bend. He moves to pull at it but Combeferre’s hand catches his. Combeferre looks sympathetic, apologetic. Fear nestles itself along the space Grantaire is leaving empty. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”   

     “What I’m trying to tell you,” Combeferre corrects softly, “is that the doctor doesn’t think you are stable enough to go home just yet.”   

     “Stable?” Enjolras repeats dumbly. He laughs a little. “I am bruised and cut but I am fine. I will be fine.”   

     “Physically, yes.”   

     “Then I can wait at home.” He shifts on the bed, rolling his shoulders. His muscles aren’t responding the way they should. Physically he is fine, he reminds himself. Combeferre wouldn’t lie about that. “I can wait at home,” he tells his friends with the conviction he wishes he felt. His voice is as powerful as he can pretend to be. Strength finds itself in the belief that Grantaire is waiting for him at home. Grantaire knows that’s where he can find Enjolras so Enjolras will wait. He will wait a lifetime. “I have to go home. I will sleep and eat. I will take medicines. I will do anything you tell me to, Combeferre, but I will do it at home where Grantaire can find me.”   

     “I’m sorry Enjolras. You can’t do that.”   

     “Why not? You said I was fine.” Enjolras softens his approach. He can fix this. All he needs to do is find Grantaire. “If I find Grantaire, things will be okay. He knows where to find me. I have to go home because he knows that’s where he can find me.”    

     Combeferre takes a frustrated breath. He squeezes his eyes shut as he shakes his head. Fear boils into anger and he finally snaps. “You’re seeing things that don’t exist. Grantaire doesn’t exist!” Realizing he finally said it, Combeferre opens his eyes to see Enjolras staring at him. His face slowly knits in confusion, then twists into something full of anger and terror. In response, Combeferre’s softens. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Enjolras but you have to stay here until you talk to someone, until you talk to a psychiatrist.”   

     “No.” Enjolras lets go of his friend. “No.” He tries to move away. “No. I’m going home. I have to go home. I have to find Grantaire.”   

     “Enjolras, going after him is what landed you in here.” Combeferre takes Enjolras’ hand back in his own but Enjolras pulls away so he sits on the edge of the bed. His voice is softer, a kindness pulled from the deepest parts of his soul. Enjolras recognizes it not as a beloved sound but as a betrayal. He’s using their connection to break Grantaire’s. “Have you ever considered that maybe he doesn’t exist? That he’s not real?”   

     Enjolras snaps his jaw tightly. He glares at Combeferre, staring into his eyes to catch the flicker of a lie. There is nothing but the pain of saying something that hurts, the fear of telling a damaging truth. He looks to Courfeyrac, then Jehan. They watch him with wide eyes, slightly parted lips. They’re worried and concerned, waiting for his reaction. They don’t argue for Grantaire’s existence. They don’t defend Enjolras’ sanity.    

     It isn’t enough to lose Grantaire. He’s to be alone. Kill them or live without them. Either way he loses his family. It’s his fault. How can he do this to them? How can he do this over and over and over again? Enjolras can’t catch his breath. Something starts beeping and it steals the others attention. Combeferre moves off the bed to the flashing machines. Courfeyrac’s talking to him, calling his name. Enjolras pulls the contraption off of his finger and the beep turns into a mechanical shriek. Weight presses on his chest, one on each scar. In a growing panic, he tugs at the strings attached to him. The calls for his name get louder. He can’t do this without his friends. He can’t do this without Grantaire. He can’t do this alone.    

     “No!” Enjolras shouts. He can’t fight alone. Hands struggle to keep him pinned, pushing him against the bed. He kicks his legs, twists to free himself. Enjolras tries to convince himself to open his eyes but he won’t see Grantaire. Grantaire isn’t here. “He does. I can feel the scars. I can feel him! Please! Please let me find him.”   

     The door swings open and there's a sudden blur of activity. Enjolras doesn't open his eyes as he fights the hands on his wrists, screaming for Grantaire until the familiar syllables start dragging, cutting through his throat. He loses Combeferre’s voice and Courfeyrac’s touch. He loses everything as he falls into a world between the revolution and death and Grantaire and where he is now, with no one believing him, no one standing by him. He’s alone.   

     Courfeyrac falls against the wall, watching as nurses quickly strap Enjolras to the bedrails with the efficiency of years of experience. He thinks it should take much more strength than a few practiced nurses to conquer Enjolras. He wonders how much this is destroying him, how long it has been destroying him. Courfeyrac wonders if there’s any going back.    

     Combeferre struggles to push his way back to the bed, through the nurses to Enjolras. “Please,” he’s begging. “Please! Let me handle this. I can help!”   

     The head nurse shakes her head, stepping back into place between Combeferre and the bed. This isn’t her first time dealing with Combeferre or Enjolras. She takes the needle Enjolras pulled out and goes through the steady motions of starting a new intravenous line. Her face is drawn tight as she questions her decision to leave the room earlier without sedating the patient. “Twice in one hour. We’re sedating him.”   

     “Fine but give me a chance,” Combeferre pleads desperately. “Just cuff him, please? He can’t hurt himself or anyone else when he’s cuffed. I talked him down earlier, you saw that. I can help. Please?”   

     She studies him for a long moment, long enough for Enjolras’ screams to be the only sound left in the room. When she nods, a breath of relief escapes the other three boys. It’s a small win but the first one they’ve had in far too long. “Alright. Go ahead.”   

     With her permission, the other nurses take a step back. They hold their breath and watch Combeferre as he kneels on the bed. It takes him a few tries before he’s able to get Enjolras’ face in both his hands, having to avoid the violent attempts Enjolras is making to break free. Enjolras fights him, pulling away and shaking his head. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his face red from the effort of screaming and beads of sweat drip down his forehead. The sharp jolts of his arms snap the plastic bedrails against the base of the hospital bed. The clatter matches his echoing screams. When Combeferre presses their foreheads together, Enjolras suddenly hesitates. He falls quiet, breathing heavy and arms tense, fists clenched.    

     “Listen. Listen to me, Enjolras.” Combeferre’s voice is soft but strong, reassuring Enjolras that he has some level of control. The nurses admire his carefully maintained composure. Enjolras doesn’t open his eyes as he snaps his wrists up, testing the bounds again. In response, Combeferre presses their foreheads even closer, closing his own eyes and raising his voice. “Deep breaths, Enjolras. You need to calm down. For me to help, you have to calm down. Please, Enjolras. Let me help.”   

     As the tension leaves Enjolras’ arms, Combeferre lifts his head up. The snap of the bedrail is softer when he tries to grab Combeferre’s arm instead of fighting the bounds but the leather straps keep his friend just out of reach. Enjolras forces his eyes open, having to blink through the tears. Combeferre smiles. He kisses Enjolras’ forehead in a silent thank you. “I can help you,” he promises Enjolras in a whisper. “Just stay calm, okay? Stay calm and you can stay awake.”    

     “I can’t do this again. I don't want to do it again!” His voice rises and falls between desperate pleas and sharp denials. “Please. Tell me it was for a good cause. Tell me it helped! I need to know I didn't kill you for nothing. Tell me it changed something! Because there- there is blood on my boots.” He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, more tears rolling down his cheeks. “The blood- your blood is dripping through my fingers and I- I am fine.” Enjolras looks up to Combeferre, his eyes wide and bottom lip trembling. “Tell me we didn’t die for nothing. Please, Ferre. Please! Tell me it meant something! Tell me you believed!”   

     Combeferre’s mouth hangs up as if he had been slapped for no reason. His eyes flinch in his confusion and pain, his composure cracking under the heartbreaking words of hallucinations. He can’t figure out why he continues to think that maybe they’re all just misconnecting, missing some important detail that explains this all. He can’t continue to have complete faith that Enjolras will eventually look at him and smile, promise them that everything is fine and that Combeferre was just overreacting. That will help no one. The slow understanding breaks through his self-control. He blinks at Enjolras, at the wide blue eyes searching for answers. Unable to speak, unable to promise something he doesn’t understand, Combeferre slowly lets go of Enjolras’ face. He climbs off the bed and steps away. Enjolras shuts his eyes, throwing his head back to the pillow and he screams, far louder and painful than before.    

     The nurse understands. She doesn’t force Combeferre to say it, silently filling the syringe and sedating Enjolras. Her motions are gentler than before, sympathetic against the wretched cries. As the drug fills his bloodstream and his fighting grows sluggish, Combeferre apologies over and over again. It's a soft, almost inaudible whisper as he watches with his hands digging into his hair and tears catching in the lens of his glasses. Courfeyrac slides down the wall, his face hidden by his trembling hands. His cries are easy to hear. Leaning against the opposite wall, Jehan covers his mouth with his hand as he watches Enjolras succumb to the drugs on the bed. There's a name on his last few coherent thoughts. A breathless _Grantaire_ like a prayer, a plead, a need. There is no epic more painful to watch than this tragic love story trapped in his own mind.

———————————————————————————————————————

  
     For as long as he can focus his vision, Enjolras watches Combeferre’s hands as he tries to secure the leather strap. The inside is softly padded, a now familiar sensation on his scratched wrists. If he focuses on the cold, cushioning feeling against his skin then the sound of the drums fade to a distant echo. Combeferre’s hands shake, his fingers trembling so severely that the buckle slips from his grasp and you’d think he’s the one battling through the drugs. His sharp cruse is muffled by the clatter of the metal buckle against the wheelchair. He pauses for a few breaths, closing his hands into tight fists in a pitiful attempt to steady himself. It’s a hard thing to watch. Enjolras can’t pinpoint a single moment Combeferre has ever looked so uncertain, so out of control. The strange sight puts Enjolras on edge.   

     “I can't feel my feet,” Enjolras tells him. Combeferre doesn’t need to be so worried about making sure he’s tightly strapped to the wheelchair. They both know the nurses are giving him some sort of sedative. It's too light to put him to sleep but just strong enough to critically interfere with his motor skills. He doesn’t think he could close his hands into fists as tightly as Combeferre has. Even his words feel slurred together. He’s not going anywhere.    

     Combeferre nods with the new information, steadying himself just long enough to get the first strap securely buckled. “I’ll talk to the doctor about that.”   

     “I'm not escaping, Ferre.” Enjolras bends to try and catch Combeferre’s attention. When he gets the feeling that Combeferre’s purposefully avoid eye contact, Enjolras laughs a little. The notion itself is so ridiculous that he can’t bring himself to believe it. “Do you not trust me?”   

     His head snaps up, startling Enjolras and dropping the second strap. He looks offended by the question but the refutal dies on his tongue. It’s not hard to see the realization cross his face. No. He doesn’t trust Enjolras anymore. It’s painful and complicated, layered by moments forgotten by Enjolras. Combeferre takes in a long breath before quickly dropping his gaze back to the leather strap. “It’s hospital policy.”    

     Anger from Combeferre’s silence seethes into a glare. Enjolras doesn’t want to be mad at Combeferre. Not only is Combeferre completely undeserving but it’s starting to get exhausting. With the added drugs, his already unmanageable emotions are even harder to contain but he tries admirably to calm himself down. Instead of clipped, his voice comes across annoyed and almost childish in it’s complaining. “This isn’t necessary.”   

     “I could get in trouble if I don’t follow it.” He finally gets the second strap secure. With two fingers, he tests how tight it is like one would for a dog collar. “Is that comfortable?”   

     Enjolras ignores him. “I’m not going anywhere, Ferre.”   

     “You've tried twice in the last twelve hours.” He disappears behind the wheelchair as Enjolras tries to remember what he’s talking about. Out of all the disconnected memories, blurred by sedatives and the revolution, he can’t figure out what Combeferre is referring to. Whatever happened, it wasn’t good. Maybe that’s why Combeferre can’t look at him. That or the fact that he’s strapped to a wheelchair because he’s convinced he lead a revolution nearly two hundred years ago. Rebellion, he corrects himself. They failed and everyone died.   

     He waits until Combeferre comes back before apologizing. Enjolras bends again, trying to grab Combeferre’s eye, but his friend doesn’t look up from where he’s focused on draping the blanket over his legs. What a kind and useless distraction. “I’m sorry, Ferre.”   

     “I understand.”    

     The response surprises Enjolras. “Do you?”   

     Combeferre stops fiddling with the blanket. He finally looks up to Enjolras and smiles apologetically. “No. Not really. But I'm trying, I promise.”   

     “All I need is-”   

     “Grantaire,” Combeferre cuts him off with a long suffering sigh. He rolls his eyes and turns around to glare at the machines. “I know.”    

     “He's not dead.”   

     “He's not real.” When he turns around, Enjolras glares at him but all he sees is how painful this is for Combeferre. The sadness in his eyes is full of mourning and grief. He looks the same way Enjolras feels when he realizes he won’t just open his eyes and see Grantaire grinning at him. The sorrow is heartbreaking. “One more test,” Combeferre promises him with a deep breath and a forced smile. There’s been a lot of that lately. “One more test and we’ll know. Everything will be better here on out because we can make a plan and set goals. We’ll get there, E.”   

     “Goals?” Enjolras laughs bitterly. “To what, see how close to normal I can get? Or are we measuring it by how far from crazy I act? Let me know so I can adjust my perspective.”   

     “I don't think that's funny.” He sounds hurt by the response. Combeferre steps behind Enjolras to push the wheelchair into the hall.    

     “I'm not trying to be funny.”   

     “I'm trying, Enjolras. I am trying to help you. At least do the same and meet me halfway.”   

     Enjolras wants to focus on how tired his best friend sounds. But no one believes him anymore. That seems fair, he knows. Believing him kills them. He’s glad to see that they’ve finally learned not to follow him anymore. Maybe they can grow old. “If Grantaire was here, you'd see I'm not crazy.”   

     “I don’t think you're crazy,” Combeferre immediately corrects. To emphasis his point, he leans closer to Enjolras and kisses the top of his head without stopping his steady strides. “And you’re right but he's not here, is he?”   

     “That's why I have to find him!” His voice rises, having to resist the need to lean into Combeferre’s touch. He’s mad at Combeferre for not trusting him and angry at Grantaire for not being here. He’s worried about Jehan and wants Courfeyrac because Courfeyrac can distract him from the flashes of muskets, the burning stench of gunpowder, and death. But he doesn’t have any right to ask them for their support anymore.    

     Combeferre stops walking. He squats in front of Enjolras with a serious look that demands Enjolras to focus. “Have you considered that he's a solution your mind has made to something your battling?”   

     “No. No. He is real.” Breathing suddenly gets harder. Pressure builds on his chest, his cheeks flush. The hallway suddenly grows too warm. “I've seen him. I’ve heard him. I know how his hand fits in mine. How could I make that up?”   

     Before responding, Combeferre squeezes Enjolras’ knee. It’s his way of making a physical connection without bringing attention to the straps around Enjolras’ wrists. Enjolras can’t decide if he’s grateful or annoyed. “Because you may be battling a mental illness.”    

     “I'm not sick. Besides needing to find Grantaire, I'm completely normal.” Enjolras pulls his arms to grab his friend’s hand before remembering that Combeferre thoughtfully squeezed his knee instead of his hand. “Are we not having a normal conversation right now?”   

     Combeferre laughs awkwardly, not sure if Enjolras is making a joke or not. “You think discussing the possibility of a mental illness and arguing that the explanation rests solely on the existence of one man that no one can find is a normal conversation?”   

     “We've had stranger,” shrugs Enjolras. He smiles a little, hoping to lighten the conversation. Maybe then he’ll be allowed out of the bounds.    

     “Really? Fine, then what's with the blood? If we’re having a perfectly normal conversation, then tell me what blood you’re talking about, Enjolras? How do I get hurt?” He shifts on his feet, eagerly expecting a reasonable answer that would explain this all. “And how can you possibly be responsible?”   

     Enjolras flinches back. There are slices in Combeferre’s sweater, blood dripping down in a rapid, deadly pace that stains the tile floor between his shoes. He leans in, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” he asks in a breathy whisper. “You aren’t supposed to be hurt, Ferre. You aren’t supposed to know that. Where did you hear that, Ferre?”   

     “From you!” Combeferre snaps. He pulls back, physically forcing himself to take a step away as Enjolras drops his head, digging through the last conversations he can remember. The words alternate between English and French, Grantaire’s face flashing just out in his peripheral. Bahorel is dead on the barricade, Jehan is missing, and everyone is going to die. It's just a matter of time before dawn. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Enjolras.” Combeferre bends in front of him again, his hand stays on Enjolras’ knee. “I'm trying to help, that's all. Something isn't right and this will help figure it out, meaning it will help lead to a solution.”   

     “You’re not the one slowly losing their grip on reality. Don't apologize, Ferre." Tears build in his eyes. The free-floating emotions range from one side of the room, then snap back to the other and it’s exhausting. This is exhausting. All he wants to do is lie down and wait for Grantaire to find him but he’s not even certain that can happen anymore. Combeferre wouldn’t lie to him. Combeferre wouldn’t be so close to tears for a long, elaborate practical joke. There is no value in lying to him. When he promises he’s only trying to help, Enjolras has no choice but to believe him. “Thank you. Please know that I love you. At all times.”   

     “This is not your fault.” When Enjolras rolls his eyes, Combeferre raises his voice. “This is not your fault! This is a chemical imbalance in your brain. Nothing you said or did could have prevented this. We will figure it out together. I will be here with you, every step of the way.” He bends lower to catch Enjolras' eye. “Know that I love you,” he repeats. “At all times.”   

     Enjolras blinks up at him. He studies the familiar face. He believes Combeferre. That’s one fact he's never lost track of. The fear in his friend's eyes, the pain in his own chest, the exhaustion in his bones, the rolling memories that catch him in a bloody tide pool are all building up. It's too much. It's too fast. He can't survive this alone. The eager, frightened way Combeferre waits for a response makes him want to confess to everything. All the lives Enjolras has destroyed, all the times he's known and simply did it again. The blood, the bullets, the scars and Grantaire. The words hang on the tip of his tongue, only bitten back by the fear that Combeferre may not be able to hear it. Not only will it burden him in a life where he's finally, after all these years, free from that pain but he might not trust Enjolras. What if they don’t believe him when he promises that they followed him willingly? That they believed in the cause, trusted Enjolras, saw the same future he had seen. And it killed them.    

     He can’t do this alone. If being sick is the price of keeping his friends, of keeping his family, then it’s worth the cost. He knows it's selfishness but he also knows that a mental illness is a better excuse than a failed rebellion. They don’t remember and they shouldn’t have to. For their sacrifice, he can give them this life. “Please don’t leave me,” Enjolras begs him in a small whisper.      “I’ll stay with you until the psychiatrist gets here,” Combeferre promises. By the strength in his voice, an unfamiliar sound in the last few days, Enjolras knows he understands. Combeferre thinks this is his confession. If they believe being mentally ill is the worst of his crimes, then Enjolras can keep them by his side. They might not leave him. “Then I’ll be right outside. The whole time. As soon as you’re done, you’ll see me. I promise. I’m not going anywhere."

     They start walking again and Enjolras can feel Combeferre’s weight shift behind him on the wooden floors. He can see him bent over the maps on the table. Combeferre believed him, Enjolras reminds himself. They followed him for a reason. Do not negate their faith because it led to their deaths. He berates himself. His mishandling of this entire situation goes far beyond scaring them. He turns his head to look at Combeferre. No one remembers them. They all should remember them. Their names should be recited like prayers in history classes, tattooed on wrists, dropped and hinted in movies and books, poems and songs. Everyone should know them and their sacrifice. Everyone should care.    

     Combeferre smiles at him, his steps a little lighter and quicker now that he thinks Enjolras is moving forward. Maybe Enjolras is making this up. Maybe he’s trapped himself in his mind. Maybe Grantaire isn’t real. Because if they were real, if their sacrifice meant something and Combeferre and his entire family gave their life for the good of the citizens then everyone would know. Everyone would remember. But he’s alone.    

     Tears run down his cheeks. He only realizes he’s crying when a few drop onto the blanket over his legs. Combeferre notices too. As he stops the wheelchair, Enjolras silently begs him not to ask the questions he knows are coming. He doesn’t want to admit Grantaire isn’t real. Admitting he’s not real means losing him for certain. Even if he’s someone made up in his own chemically imbalanced brain, Enjolras isn’t strong enough to let him go. Not yet. “Where is Courfeyrac?”   

     His best friend hesitates at Enjolras’ side. He thinks for a moment before stepping back and giving Enjolras the distraction. “Courfeyrac is at work.” Combeferre starts pushing the wheelchair again. “He’d be here if he could but he couldn’t miss any more days.”   

     Enjolras chews the inside of his cheek. “What about you?”   

     “What about me?”    

     “Is it okay for you to miss class?”    

     He’s quiet for a few steps before saying, “I’m on leave.”    

     “For what?”   

     “For a family emergency. Valjean set it up for me.”   

     “Valjean,” Enjolras repeats softly. His feet are starting to tingle. If he focuses on that strange feeling he can almost convince himself that he can have both his family and Grantaire.    

     “Yeah, you know him. He’s my superior at the hospital. He comes by after his shifts almost every day.”   

     Maybe Enjolras should tell him about the tingling. But he frowns and ignores it. If it’s a heart attack or a stroke or something big and fast, it could be an easy solution.“I know. I know him.”   

     “You call him the volunteer.” It almost sounds bitter, annoyed, the short signs of frustration that Enjolras has been collecting in the last few months. Courfeyrac is the only friend who hasn’t told him to stay strong or snapped at a delusional question and even then Enjolras can see how hard it is for him. For them. A heart attack would be easier. Mourn him after his death instead of trying to save him now. If Grantaire isn’t alive then there isn’t much to save. If Grantaire isn’t real, then all the death and blood, all the pain and loss he sees isn’t real either. How can one memory survive while the other stays left behind? He bites the inside of his cheek. The only point of that would be in punishment. Chemical imbalance, he repeats to himself. That’s easier to swallow than reliving the failed rebellions over and over and over again. The click of the muskets, the stench of blood, the taste of gunpowder. Not real. Something his mind is tricking him into seeing. Catching the darker tone, Combeferre squeezes Enjolras’ shoulder as they turn into a smaller wing of the hospital. “He’s a good man, E. Valjean’s been helping us understand this.”   

     Enjolras can’t hear Combeferre’s words anymore. His nails dig into his palms. In his anger, he tugs his wrists in. The leather straps catch him before he gets anywhere. Grantaire  _has_ to be real. There are no other options. Grantaire knows and if Grantaire knows then Enjolras isn’t sick. “Where are we going? Grantaire doesn’t know I’m here. He knows my apartment. I should be there.”   

     The scuffle of shoes sounds behind him and the wheelchair jolts forward until Combeferre steadies himself after tripping. This shouldn’t surprise him, Enjolras thinks. He’s told Combeferre this several times before. This is the reason he continues to try and escape. Not to make it harder on them or because he doesn’t want to be here but because he has to be home. Grantaire doesn’t know where to find him. “We’re going to speak to a psychiatrist,” Combeferre tells him. His voice is carefully restrained. “Remember?”   

     “Why do we have to leave the room?” It’s easier to get out of the room. They don't strap him as tightly to the bed as he’s strapped now to the chair. There’s no way he can reach the brace on his knee and with the god damn brace he can’t bend his leg. “I can walk.”   

     “No you can’t walk.” Combeferre follows a nurse to the office their looking for. He leans close to Enjolras, lowering his voice. The nurse can still hear him but now it’s easier to politely ignore them. “Not for another week or so. If you push it, you run the risk of further damaging the fractures in your leg. And the doctor doesn’t want to meet there because it can lead to predisposed assumptions.”   

     “Oh and this won't give him any assumptions?” Enjolras pulls on the straps. The nurse glances over her shoulder. He glares at her.   

     “This is a good thing,” Combeferre almost whispers. He’s close enough to Enjolras for his breath to rustle a few blond curls. “In a few weeks, we’ll see this moment right here as a turning point. Trust me.”   

     Enjolras tries to, making an active attempt to just follow his lead. As they move into the empty office, he repeats the notion to himself. He trusts Combeferre, believes Combeferre. But Combeferre is wrong. Combeferre can be wrong. No memories supporting that theory jump to the front of his mind. It’s only Grantaire’s wide eyes as he reaches the top of the stairs, his hand wrapping around Enjolras’. It’s his smile and his soft voice as the night grows darker, colder. He’s always there. But Enjolras is alone. He looks over to where Combeferre had pulled up a chair to sit closer to him. Combeferre’s waiting quietly, his foot tapping impatiently and hands intertwined together in his lap but he’s leaning towards Enjolras in an awkward bend of his back. When he notices Enjolras looking at him, he sits up and smiles. “You said Feuilly is looking for him?”   

     Combeferre nods. Something thoughtful crosses his face before falling neutral again. “He hasn’t found anything. Courfeyrac asked Lamarque for help and he has a few private detectives keeping an eye out but nothing so far.”   

     “And he checked the nineteenth century. Right?” His hands pull against the bounds but he only realizes he’s tugging on them when Combeferre gently lays a hand on his arm. The contact calms the abrupt need to be free. “Early nineteenth century. France in the 1830’s. That’s where he needs to look. In Paris.”    

     “He’s looked everywhere, E. No one named Grantaire exists. No one that he can find and Feuilly’s pretty good with the computer.”     

     Enjolras is quiet for a minute. He tries to narrow in on the other memory, the one where Grantaire is walking towards him in the tent, reciting the Declaration of Independence. The wicked smirk pulls his mouth to the side and Enjolras feels the blush color his cheeks. “What about 1776?”   

     “What like a revolutionary war hero?” Combeferre laughs. Enjolras’ face twists painfully and he looks away before Combeferre can realize it’s not a joke. His own smile falls. He shifts closer to the edge of his seat, grateful that Enjolras can’t pull his hand away from the tight grasp Combeferre keeps it in. “I'm sorry, Enjolras. I’m sorry. That was mean. I'm not laughing at you. I promise. The suggestion just surprised me, is all”   

     “It's okay to laugh,” Enjolras tells him without looking away from the edge of the desk he’s forced his gaze on. He can smell the summer breeze through their tent. The sun will rise soon and they'll have to get up. He remembers feeling like he could lie there forever. But he didn't and they all died. "I'm the one who asked you to search for 1776 painters with the complete belief that it's related to a delusion I chased through a blizzard.”   

     “I'll ask Feuilly to look into it, okay?” He’s completely serious. Enjolras appreciates that even after all this, Combeferre’s still willing to search for any evidence that may exonerate him. Maybe it’s because they’re sitting in a psychiatrists office with the promise that after this one chat, this last test, they’ll have a medical explanation and medical solutions that might not only help but could possibly solve this shit show that Enjolras has once again dragged his friends into. “Do you have any other dates or places?”   

     He thinks for a minute. The clock between the windows ticks. It feels like he only has one more shot at finding Grantaire. Clinging to the off chance that he’s not losing his mind, Enjolras gives Combeferre the few specific details he can recall. He wonders why the French rebellion was so prominent, why he remembered it first. Perhaps it was because out of all the wars he’s fought and died in, that’s the one time, the one place where he was truly willing to sacrifice himself, that it was completely for and by a country. The citizens, the people. The poor and the wretched who deserved so much better. He was fighting for human liberties and would have settled for recognition that one class is not better simply because they are born with titles. They could have waited. Sixteen years. They could have fought, could have survived, could have helped shape the country the way it should have been. He and Grantaire could have lived together. His friends could have grown old. They didn’t have to be martyrs. But the time was right, he tells himself. He reminds himself because he believes that. They all believed that. Combeferre and Courfeyrac wouldn’t have indulged him to that extreme if they didn’t believe too.   

     Combeferre calls his name. His hand had moved to cup the side of his face. Enjolras opens his eyes, releasing the sharp bite he has of the inside of his cheek. The taste of blood is now familiar, almost comforting. It reminds him of Grantaire. What a fucked up association that is and yet, it seems appropriate. “Yes?”   

     “Do you have any more places or dates that you’d like Feuilly to look into?”   

     “Yes. 1863. Virginia, I think. 1916. Russia, maybe?” He closes his eyes again. All he sees is Grantaire. That’s all he needs right now. He’s too tired to remember anymore, too tired to fight. “I can’t tell what the other dates are. Maybe Rome? Ireland. I don’t know. Grantaire would, though.”   

     “Any revolution, it sounds like.”    

     “Non-successful ones. So 1775 or earlier. In Massachusetts. That would be my guess.”   

     “I'll ask him, okay? If there’s anything out there, we’ll find it,” he promises, writing something on his phone.   

     “Thank you.” Enjolras sighs. He wants to close his eyes again. Maybe he’ll dream of Grantaire if they give him enough drugs. “Are we done here?”   

     Combeferre looks up from his phone. He blinks at Enjolras. “No.” His voice is soft. There’s no smile. “No, we’re not done. We haven’t even started yet.”   

     “Right.” He nods, dropping his gaze to his lap. “We haven’t started.”   

     “This is good, E. I promise.” Combeferre cups his hand around Enjolras’ neck. He pulls him close, dropping his forehead against the side of Enjolras’ head. “It’s nothing but a few questions. Talking, that’s all. It’ll be painless, E, I promise.”    

     Before Enjolras can respond, before he can explain how none of this is painless, the door opens. Combeferre sits up and Enjolras’ head drops from the sudden lack of support. The man walks in, apologizing for the late timing. Enjolras tries not to glare at him but this man is here to tear Grantaire away from him. He deserves nothing but Enjolras’ wrath. When the doctor smiles at him, Combeferre stands up. Panic swells in Enjolras’ chest. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything before his friend is smiling hopefully at him. Combeferre takes Enjolras’ face in both of his hands, cautious of the slowly healing stitches. “For this to work you need to be honest. Okay? Tell the truth, E. I’ll be right outside.”   

     He kisses Enjolras’ forehead, then leaves. Enjolras watches him, annoyed by the last, hopeful and encouraging smile he gives before closing the door. He doesn’t trust this man. He doesn’t want to be alone. “Can’t he stay?” he asks, sounding like a frightened child.   

     “I think it would be best for the two of us to speak privately,” the doctor tells him without looking up from the papers on his desk. His gently graying brown hair looks professionally done to imply wisdom. It bothers Enjolras. “You’d be less likely to lie and I would be able to ask questions that you may not feel comfortable answering.”   

     His lip curls. “I could just refuse to answer any questions without him.”   

     The doctor finally looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows. “Is that going to be the case?”   

     Enjolras thinks for a moment before shaking his head. He has put his friends through enough, the least he can do is answer some painless questions. “No.”   

     “Good. I think we will get along then.”   

     “Oh thank god,” he says dryly. “I was worried you wouldn’t like me.”   

     The only response is an amused smile. “Well thank you for meeting with me.”   

     With a tug of his wrists, Enjolras glares at the man. “I’ve lost all control of my life.”   

     “Hopefully I can find some for you.”   

     “Your optimism is painful.”   

     “You’re a very dry young man,” the doctor comments.   

     “And you are a selfish old man with a chair expensive enough to feed an entire neighborhood.” The heat from his glare is all too familiar. He looks to the side, expecting Grantaire or Courfeyrac. But he’s alone.    

     The doctor considers it, then nods. “Fair enough. Now that that’s out of the way, can we get started?”   

     “I don’t want to be here.”   

     “I think that’s implied by the handcuffs.” The doctor leans back in his expensive chair. It doesn’t make a sound. “But it’s required by your doctor so unless you’d like to continue to live in the hospital, I’d recommend you cooperate to your best ability.”   

     Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek. “Will Combeferre hear this?”     

     “No. The only shared information will be your diagnosis, what they already know, and the medical plan.” The man waits patiently for Enjolras to nod. Once he does, the doctor smiles like he’s won a mighty challenge. He sits up, the smile softening just the slightest. “Is it alright if I call you Enjolras?”   

     “What else you would you call me?”   

     “I just want to make sure.”  

     “My name is Enjolras and I am twenty-five years old,” he recites. Enjolras can’t remember if he’s reminding himself of the facts or repeating something that Combeferre whispers softly to him when he thinks Enjolras is sleeping. “I was born in Connecticut, I live in New York City, and I work as a consultant for General Lamarque.”   

     The doctor writes something down, nodding a little. “Who is General Lamarque?”   

     Someone grabs his arm from behind. He turns his head to hear Courfeyrac whispers in his ear,  _Doctors give him a week_. Enjolras nods but his heart sinks. He crosses the sturdy wooden stage, eyes set on the crowd in front of him. Feuilly did a spectacular job, he remembers thinking. It’s one of the few trustworthy stages Enjolras has ever given a speech on. It’s far better than the crates he used three weeks ago. He ended that speech with a sprained ankle and stitches across his forehead when the guard showed up. Grantaire helped him get back to his rooms. Enjolras lifts his hand to run his finger across the scar but his wrist catches on the leather strap. He examines the straps, frowning when he doesn’t think he can break free.    

     “Enjolras?”   

     He jerks his head up. The doctor is studying him carefully. There’s no one else in the room. “What?”   

     “Who is General Lamarque?”   

     “What do you mean?” He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh or not.    

     “You said you work for General Lamarque,” he reminds his patient. “Who is that?”   

     Enjolras shakes his head. That’s not a funny joke. “I didn’t say general.”   

     “Is that a nickname around the office?”   

     “No. No he is a good man. We don’t have nicknames for him. And he’s not a general. He’s the head partner at a law firm that I work for.”   

     “Does the military have some significance in your life?”   

     “No,” Enjolras tells him louder. “I am not a solider.”   

     For whatever reason the doctor drops the subject, Enjolras is grateful. His own voice is echoing back to him, his speech and Courfeyrac’s whispered information. Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan are in the crowd, passing out flyers. He knows the National Guard will show up soon. Behind him, Grantaire watches carefully. But when he looks, there’s only bookshelves with foreign titles. “Why don’t we talk about some of the issues you've been struggling with lately, Enjolras.”   

     “I only have two issues and you can’t help me with either of them.”   

     “And what two issues are those?”   

     A long minute passes where Enjolras considers not responding. If enough time passes, maybe he can just go back to his hospital room and dream of the last clear memory he has where all of his friends are there and Grantaire by his side. But he can’t do that to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I can’t find Grantaire and I am trying to protect my friends. I need both but I don’t think I’m allowed to have both.”   

     The doctor tilts his head at him. He almost looks kind and Enjolras feels the bubbling need to confess to him. “Why can’t you have both?”   

     “Because they don’t think Grantaire exists.” He chews on the inside of his cheek to keep the threatening tears at bay.    

     “Who is Grantaire?”   

     He doesn’t know how to answer that at first and the doctor gives him the time. His patience is quickly softening Enjolras’ glare. “He is a friend.”   

     “Where is he?”   

     “Well if I knew that, then I wouldn’t be.”    

     “You’re right,” he agrees. “That was a silly question. What I meant to ask is where do you know him from?”   

     “He's been with me for as long as I can remember.”   

     “Where did you meet him?”   

     Enjolras shrugs. “I don't remember.”   

     “What do you remember?” His tone is almost gentle.    

     If Enjolras lets the blurry sedatives gloss over the voice, he can convince himself it’s Combeferre. And if he confesses to Combeferre, then maybe he can keep just a little of Grantaire with him. He smiles, something small and secretive. Something for Grantaire alone. “He was at the rebellion with me. That’s what I remember most.”   

     “What rebellion?”   

     “The June Rebellion of 1832,” Enjolras says. His eyes drop to the corner of the desk as the doctor writes something down. The flashes of muskets and splintering wood overrides the sound of pen scratching on paper.   

     “Are you immortal?”   

     He laughs bitterly. Enjolras hadn’t thought of that and the notion scares him. When he looks up, the psychiatrist is waiting for his answer. “Wouldn’t that be the worst of punishments?” Enjolras shakes his head. A cold fear sends goosebumps down his arms. He tries to remember his parents, his childhood home, his bedroom but there are too many versions floating through his mind. “No. I don't know. But I haven’t jumped off a building yet so I’ll have to update you on that.”   

     “Have you considered trying?”   

     “Trying what?” Enjolras tugs on the leather straps. He wants to know how much of himself he can trust.   

     “Have you tried jumping off a building?”   

     “Oh.” He means killing himself. Enjolras shakes his head. “No. I think it would only be easier for everyone, though. But Ferre would be angry and Courf would feel guilty. I would only try it if I couldn't find Grantaire,” Enjolras decides, “because then I really am crazy.”   

     “How would finding Grantaire explain everything?”   

     “Because Grantaire knows what's going on.”   

     “What do you think is going on?”   

     “I don't know. That’s why I need to find Grantaire.”   

     The doctor nods. When the scratch of his pen stops, he looks up again. There’s a sudden spark of interest in his eyes, seeing an opportunity in Enjolras. “Let’s go back to the rebellion. You said 1832. That would mean you’re quite old, right?”    

     “I’m not an idiot.” Enjolras squares his shoulder, then finds no energy to keep up the defensive position and sinks back into the wheelchair. The exhaustion can be heard in his voice. It’s only a fraction louder than the now constant scratch of the doctor’s pen. “I know how it sounds.”   

     “How does it sound?”   

     “Fucking crazy. That’s why I’m here, talking to you.”    

     “Do you have an explanation then? One that you don’t think is crazy?”   

     “No but Grantaire will,” he says wistfully. Closing his eyes, he can see Grantaire sitting in the Musain, laughing with Bossuet and Joly. They fade when he opens his eyes and his smile falls. “He knows. I know he does. I just have to find him, then the pieces will make sense. My friends will be alive and he will be with me and everything will be right.”   

     “So Grantaire. Can we talk about him?”   

     “Why?”   

     “Because clearly he is very important to you.”   

     “He is.” A tear runs down Enjolras’ cheek. He brushes it off with his shoulder. Anger starts to bubble in his chest because he’s stronger than this. He should just sit down, make a plan, and follow through until he’s found Grantaire. How did he end up chained to a wheelchair speaking to a psychiatrist?    

     “Why?” The doctor waits for him to answer but Enjolras only looks out the window. “Would you like to talk about the rebellion instead?”   

     “I don't like talking about this with you. I don't know you. I don't like you. I don't trust you.”   

     “That's not unusual. But you have two choices. Ignore me and just wait for another episode like the one with the blizzard or work with me on getting this under control. You don't have to like me to do either of those.”   

     The clock ticks on the wall. There’s a layer of frost starting to creep up the window. “It was going to be a revolution,” he says softly. Confessing could mean losing Grantaire but maybe it’s what he has to do. Admit to everything and save his soul. Only then will he be allowed both his family and Grantaire. If he’s learned, maybe this time will be different. Maybe they can survive. Enjolras thinks he could survive if he knows his friends will be alive and happy and grow old without blood staining their hands. They deserve that. Combeferre and Courfeyrac deserve that far more than Enjolras deserves to have them.    

     “Why wasn’t it?”   

     “Because we didn’t change anything. We failed. Failed revolutions are nothing but little rebellions that are lost to history.” The weight disappears from his shoulders as the pen picks up speed. “Everyone was there. Grantaire and Valjean. The spy.”   

     “Are all of these people in your life now?”   

     “Yes. Except for Grantaire. I don’t know where he is.”   

     “Do they play an important part in the rebellion or are they just there?”  

     Enjolras nods. He closes his eyes to bring up the sharpest memories. For the first time, he feels in control of them. In pushing aside Grantaire, if only for the moment, he can slow down time and see the old man struggling to climb up the barricade. He can hear each light syllable of the boy’s song. A whispered breeze passes him and Jehan is dead. He can feel the pressure of the trigger on his finger, Combeferre’s watchful eye, Courfeyrac running across the alley for more ammunition. They don’t have enough. “Valjean was a volunteer,” he says. His voice sounds distant, painful. It scratches the back of his throat, crawling up from the depths of his chest. For his friends, he forces Grantaire’s voice away from his memories. Grantaire is safely sleeping somewhere. He has a while before the man joins him. “He killed the spy and saved a father, offering his uniform for the man to leave. My friends were following me. They believed, too. I’m certain of it. Ferre and Courf were lieutenants. And we all died.”   

     “What year was the rebellion again?”   

     “1832. June fifth of 1832. We died June sixth.”   

     “And Grantaire died with you?” The name sounds strange on his tongue. He’s not pronouncing it right.    

     Before Enjolras can correct him, he sees the artist stand up from his table in the corner of the room. Everything is silent. Grantaire announces himself as one of them and Enjolras lowers his arms from where he had offered his chest to the National Guard. Out the window he could see his fallen friends being collected, lined up in the mud and blood to be counted and recorded. The silence is deafening, burning more painfully than the scars. “Yes.”   

     “What did you rebel against?”   

     Enjolras’ eyes open. He looks up to see the doctor watching him. His eyes narrow on the old man. “You should know them.” The lack of strength leaves him sounding pitiful instead of fierce. In a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes again. If he wasn’t sitting up, he could fall asleep. For the first time he can remember, sleep sounds peaceful. “We wanted to start a second French revolution.”   

     “This was in France?” the doctor asks.    

     “Yes. Paris.”    

     “You would have been fighting the monarchy, then. Right?”   

     He nods, opening his eyes again and looking off to the side. “King Louis-Philippe. We wanted the people to rise again for a republic. Vive la republique,” he whispers.    

     The doctor narrows his eyes at him, considering him for a moment but whatever was on his mind passes. Instead he can asks, “And they didn’t?”   

     “No.” This is easier than he thought it would be. Focus on the facts and statistics, not the memories. He wonders if the man should be indulging him this much or if Combeferre will be angry that he’s not breaking through the delusions. “Otherwise it would have been a revolution. It was just a rebellion. We were merely martyrs for the true second revolution in 1848.”   

     “Did you study French history in school?” When Enjolras shakes his head, the man takes a long, quiet moment to write something down in the growing folder. “What was your place in the rebellion?”   

     “I led it.” The words catch in his throat. In a frantic rush to remind himself that they believed too he adds, “Les Amis were there. We were the heart of the barricade at the Rue de Villette. We were the last ones at dawn.”  

     “What is Les Amis?”   

     “My friends. The group we called ourselves.”   

     “And Grantaire? Was he a part of this group as well?”   

     The question surprises him. He flinches at a sudden flash, expecting heat from the musket. Once the echoing shot quiets, he nods. “Yes. He was a member. Not a particularly useful member but in the end he was right by my side.”   

     “Is that why he means so much to you?”   

     “He was the only reason they shot me. He was the reason my blood joined our brothers’ at the barricade.”   

     “They wouldn’t shoot you without him? Why not?”   

     “They didn’t want to kill something like me.” He closes his eyes. The words whisper around him as he declines the blindfold. “They compared me to a flower.”    

     The office falls quiet. Enjolras opens his eyes when Grantaire’s voice doesn’t fill the room. The doctor is studying him, watching carefully. Despite his best attempts to keep the gaze, Enjolras finds himself checking over his shoulder for someone, anyone. “I can see where they thought you were a handsome man,” the man finally says. He sounds a bit confused as to Enjolras’ point but is willing to follow the path. It bothers Enjolras more than the misunderstood response. “It doesn’t seem unrealistic for someone to hesitate.”   

     “This is not about vanity!” He yanks violently at his cuffs with more energy than he’s had since the blizzard. It stirs through his chest, pumping the adrenaline through his veins. “Kill me and we become martyrs,” he explains through a clenched jaw. “We become the names whispered in alleys with freedom on the minds of the people. We become catalysts for the future. Take me to jail, show me broken and defeated and I am a traitor against the good king.”    

     The doctor’s pen takes off across the paper. Enjolras’ breathing is heavy. His wrists ache under the stiff leather straps. “So this man,” he asks, “this Grantaire, he helps you accomplish that?”   

     “Do not speak of him like that,” Enjolras growls.    

     “I’m apologize. I meant no disrespect.” The doctor waits for Enjolras’ short nod, make sure his apology is accepted, before taking another moment to write something down. The fight drains from Enjolras as the doctor gets a new paper to fill. He looks out the window, seeing Grantaire just in his peripheral. “But he did help you accomplish that, didn’t he? That’s why he means so much to you.”   

     “His last action in this world was to believe in me,” Enjolras says quietly. “How can he not?” This time he doesn’t wipe the tears away. He remembers the way Grantaire’s heart beats under his head when he lies on the man’s chest, how his breathing slowly evened out as he falls asleep, always much earlier than Enjolras. He remembers the warmth of the man lying next to him, how they regretted the morning sun because it always seemed to rise far too early. All they wanted was one more day, one more minute together. Well, no. That’s not true, Enjolras realizes. Enjolras wanted freedom for the lower class, a representative government, a strong and reliable republic. He wanted the people to rise up, the National Guard to step aside. More guns, more furniture, mattresses in the front of the barricade because grape shots were getting through. That’s what Enjolras wanted. Now all he wants is to hold Grantaire’s hand. Enjolras looks up from the leather strap he had been staring at. There is nothing painless about this. “Are we done? Can we be done? Please?”   

     The doctor studies him for a long minute before nodding. He writes something down, closes the folder, and leans back in his expensive chair. “We can be. I have all I need.”    

     “I want to see Combeferre.”   

     “He's right outside.” The man stands up. He smiles sympathetically at his newest patient. “I’ll go get him for you.”   

     “Thank you.”   

     When Combeferre comes in, he grins hopefully. There’s a bounce in his step and a cautious glint to his eyes. Enjolras can’t look him in the eye. In his beautiful way, Combeferre doesn’t ask him anything or force him to share. He simply squeezes his shoulder and leads them back to the hospital room. The hallway is quieter than it was before. Enjolras tugs on the leather straps, looking over his shoulder to Combeferre for the first time. His friend stops the wheelchair, leaning closer.    

     “You don’t hear the drums?” Enjolras asks cautiously. He eyes a security guard who wanders past them.   

     Combeferre drops his gaze to tuck the blanket further around Enjolras’ legs. “No. I’m sorry, E.”   

     Enjolras nods slowly. “Me too.”

  
———————————————————————————————————————

  
     The crack of Courfeyrac’s knuckles is the only sound in the office outside of the steady ticking of the clock. Combeferre paces behind the two chairs, glaring at Courfeyrac each time he cracks his knuckles. The clock ticks, Courfeyrac cracks his thumb, and the doctor is now thirty minutes late. They won’t wait much longer. Enjolras was in a sedative-induced sleep when they left but Combeferre wants to make sure he’s back before it wears off. It’s been quieter the last few days. Grantaire is the only thing Enjolras has asked for. He’s stopped fighting, stopped screaming and trying to escape. It’s both reassuring and terrifying. Another crack echoes in the office and Combeferre snaps, “You need to calm down.”   

     Courfeyrac looks over his shoulder. “Fuck you.”   

     The two glare at each other for a long, tense minute before realizing what they’re doing. They sigh, sharing an apologetic look before going back to pacing and wringing their hands together. When the door opens, the two boys jump. Courfeyrac knocks the chair over in his frantic rush. The psychiatrist smiles at them but doesn’t get to his desk before Combeferre is demanding he explain what he’s decided to do. The man looks surprised but not startled. He glances between both eagerly awaiting boys, then nods.    

     “Alright, I understand your urgency.” He tucks the file under his arm. “I spoke to his current physician and Dr. Valjean, who, as you know has been assisting with his treatment. Because we believe he is a threat to both himself and others, especially you two, we’re going to admit him for a three month trial period.”   

     “He’s not a threat to us,” Courfeyrac corrects immediately. He shakes his head, glancing to Combeferre for support. “He wouldn’t hurt us. Why would you think that?”    

     “You both followed him out into the snowstorm.” He glances between them like it’s an unnecessary explanation. “He’s unpredictable and I know that you both are willing to go to extreme lengths to try to help him.”   

     “We’ll be fine. Ferre, tell him. Tell him that we’ll be fine. Enjolras doesn’t need to go anywhere.”   

     “Why don’t we just listen to him, first?” Combeferre asks. It earns him a narrowed look from Courfeyrac but he falls quiet.   

     The doctor glances between them before continuing. “We’ll do intensive therapy and a course of medications to try to get his hallucinations under control. My biggest concern at the moment is that he seems to have wrapped his sanity around finding this one individual.” He looks at his notes. “This Grantaire. You both mentioned that name to me before I met with Enjolras. Our goal will be to get him to recognize that he is unwell and in doing that, we’ll have to disassociate him with the delusions he’s been battling. Until we accomplish that, there isn’t much we can do to help.”   

     Combeferre nods along with the plan, agreeing with him. “Will the three month trail be held here?”    

     “There’s a hospital in Connecticut that I’ve recommended.”   

     “Wait,” Courfeyrac takes a step closer to him. “You’re locking him up?”   

     “It’s a psychiatric hospital not jail but there is a level of security for the patients own safety. As his emergency contacts, you may be able to override my medical advice with legal action but I’ll be upfront with you and say that if you do that, this will not be his last time in the emergency room.”   

     Courfeyrac starts shaking his head and doesn’t stop. His accent gets thicker the faster he tries to argue. “We’d watch him. We’d be with him. He won’t run away again. Tell him, Ferre. Tell him that we can be there for him.” When his friend doesn’t back him up, Courfeyrac hits his arm. “Tell him!”    

     “What if he gets a gun, Courf?” Combeferre asks softly. He tilts his head to the side, slipping into doctor mode. Torn between misunderstanding the point of his question and anger that he’s siding with this random psychiatrist, Courfeyrac takes a step back and glares at him. “What if his delusions get so severe that he actually thinks he’s in a revolution? What if he gets a gun and goes after someone he thinks is royalty? Or a cop! I mean, you can’t say that he isn’t a threat.”   

     “We’ll make sure he doesn’t get a gun! Problem solved.” He shrugs as if that solves it all.   

     “What if we miss something? What if we miss something and instead of a three month stay, he’s incarcerated for attempted murder? What if he gets himself killed? What if we can’t handle it and we lose him for good?” He shakes his head. “I won’t let that happen.”   

     “So you’re going to lock him up? You’re going to abandon him! How can you do that?”   

     “Do you think I want to?” Combeferre finally snaps. His voice rises in the office. The doctor drops his gaze, giving them as much privacy the small room can offer them. “Do you think I’m happy with this? Do you know how hard it is for me to even function, let alone go about my life knowing he’s here, alone and sick? Do you know how often I fall asleep on the couch because I feel too guilty climbing into my own bed? No. You don’t because it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter.” He takes a deep breath and softens his voice. “What matters is Enjolras. Enjolras is sick and he needs help. That’s what matters, Courf. I’m not abandoning him. I’m giving him the best chance I can.”   

     “No,” Courfeyrac states inarticulately. He glances between his friend and the doctor, waiting for the punchline. “No. No, I won’t sign the papers. I won’t let them take him away.”   

     “We can still visit him,” Combeferre explains. The exhaustion hangs heavily on his shoulders, destroying his posture and darkening the circles under his eyes. His attempts to comfort Courfeyrac don’t sound sincere but painfully forced. “We can call him.”  

     “He’ll be alone in a psych hospital! Oh but thank god he’ll be able to give us a ring every three days. Let’s just hope we’re not out at brunch when he calls!”   

     “It doesn’t matter that you won’t sign the papers,” the doctor states. He’s given the boys as much time as his busy schedule can allow. His only concern is his patient, not how his friends handle the decisions. “Technically I have the final say unless you both actively sign the release forms and take full responsibility. And given he implied he wasn’t against suicide as an option to end the delusions or protect his friends, I can override that form as well. I think you should listen to your friend.” He stares at Courfeyrac. It matches the intensity of Courfeyrac’s glare. “Enjolras is very sick. This will never just go away or fix itself. You are both smart young men but giving up your lives for the responsibility of this illness is not a wise decision. Especially so early in his diagnoses.”   

     “I would give up my life and so much more for him!” After shooting Combeferre one last look full of anger and disdain, he storms out of the office. The force of the slammed door tilts the doctor’s framed doctorates.  

     “I understand this is a difficult situation-”

     “I want to drive him there,” Combeferre interrupts him. He looks up to the doctor from where he was staring at his feet. He doesn’t care what this man has to say anymore. Not until he’s telling them that Enjolras can come back home. “I have an extra bedroom in my apartment. He can stay one last night with us, I’ll explain it to him, and I’ll be responsible for him getting to the hospital the following morning. I have no problem being liable for what happens in the time he’s with me.”   

     The doctor is quiet for a moment. “I’m glad to see he has such a loving family. He’ll need that but I’m afraid that’s not an option.”   

     “I can ask Valjean to see if he’ll be willing to sign the papers to be liable,” he tries to compromise. Valjean has been more than kind through out this complicated situation. Combeferre isn’t above asking him for one last favor.    

     “I would have no problem with that but it’s not an option.”   

     Combeferre frowns. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all I’m asking for.”   

     “I understand. And I understand the time you are hoping for but there are orderlies now preparing him for transfer.”   

     “What? What do you mean?” He doesn’t wait for the man to answer as he runs out of the office and towards Enjolras’ hospital room with the doctor on his heels. In a rush of anger, he spins to face the doctor responsible for locking his friend away. “You just asked us for permission! How can you possibly have assumed we would say yes?”   

     Despite the sharp glare and aggressive man facing him, the doctor seems completely under control. “Because it didn’t matter if you did.”   

     “Of course it did. We’re his emergency contacts.”   

     “With the mention of suicide, I am required to keep him for seventy-two hours of observation. Because I think he is an immediate threat to both himself and others, I am legally allowed to sign him into thirty day trial at a hospital. After that, you can sign him out but I am recommending at least a three month stay.”   

     “This is complete bullshit!” Combeferre points at the man, his chest heaving in frustration and painful uselessness “What’s the point of even talking to us?”   

     “Formality,” the man shrugs, “to be perfectly honest.”   

     Panic presses on his chest. An angry red flush crosses his cheeks and he can’t see straight. His jaw clenches, his hands shake. “Let me see him,” he demands. “Let me talk to him. I can explain what is happening. Please,” he begs. “He won’t fight you if he’s with me.”   

     “I don’t think that will be wise.”   

     At the end of the hallway, Enjolras’ door swings open. Combeferre turns to see his best friend being escorted by two men, each holding one arm. There are leather cuffs around his wrists and he’s limping dramatically around the thick brace on his knee. “No. No! He can’t be walking! Not yet, not on his leg!”   

     “I already spoke with his doctor,” the psychiatrist quickly reassures him. “It’s not a far walk. He’ll be fine.”   

     With no other options, no other tactics to fight this, Combeferre screams for his best friend. He sprints down the hall only to be stopped by the doctor and a few nurses. “Enjolras! Enjolras, I’m right here!”    

     Enjolras looks over his shoulder at the familiar voice. He immediately stops walking, digging in his feet and fighting against the two men. His scratched voice fills the hallway, almost louder than Combeferre’s.    

     “He doesn’t want to go!” Combeferre begs desperately. “See? He’s scared, just let me talk to him! Please? Enjolras! Enjolras, I’m coming! He clearly doesn’t want to go yet! Give me one minute. One minute with him, please!” As Enjolras gets dragged down the hall, kicking and screaming trying to yell something but it’s muffled by the struggle against the two men, Combeferre continues to fight the nurses keeping him from his best friend. He can just barely make out his name being called, alternating between  _please_ and  _I’m sorry_. Useless, blinded by tears and unable to follow past the security doors, Combeferre turns and punches the wall. He hits it again and again until the plaster cracks and his fingers bleed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. Okay, I'm so sorry for the absurd timeline on the updates (and I've been even worse with the other two works) but now that summer is here and school is over I will get better. PROMISE. I have a tendency to start new stories every week or so. Like seriously, there are fifteen different fics I am working on that I may never even post. Yelling at me on tumblr does help, though so feel free to do that! (the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com). Anyway, here's the next chapter. There may be two or three more left. Can't wait to hear what you guys think!

     It's been nearly two months since she's seen her roommate and four since she last kissed her boyfriend. Not that she has a boyfriend anymore. That’s a fact she’s constantly reminding herself of. Éponine doesn’t have a boyfriend. She doesn’t have the amazing, brilliant, kind boyfriend because of her roommate is an absolute idiot. Combeferre put the relationship on hold but assured her it wasn’t off. He promised her that as soon as this was over, that as soon as Enjolras was better, he’d be here begging for her favor again. His words, not hers. /Begging for her favor. He even smiled when he said it. Éponine wanted to argue, to convince him otherwise but that painfully bittersweet smile of his was all too hopeful like he really believes that he’ll be able to help his best friend overcome a mental illness that probably isn’t real. Although who is she to speculate? Maybe Enjolras is sick. Maybe instead of an oppressing monarchy, he's battling himself. Even Enjolras can't be immune to imbalances in the brain. Right? But that doesn't feel right and she knows it's justifying her silence. If it's a mental illness, there's nothing she can do to help. There’s no reason for her to step up and insert herself into their lives. She can be of no help to Combeferre, only a distraction away from Enjolras, and what good would that being?

     If Enjolras does remember and Éponine agrees with him, Combeferre may only see that she’s further encouraging his delusions. Right now her relationship is on hiatus but he may push her away for good.

     Oh then there's Marius.

     Marius. Éponine sighs. She rolls to her stomach and buries her head under a pillow. /Marius. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since she kicked Grantaire out. Thankfully it’s not like before where she saw him as someone she could love, someone who could give her the future she could have had. Now she just sees his face. His dumb smile and the way he blushed. She doesn’t love him. She wants to see Combeferre because she could love Combeferre but what is Marius doing? Has he found Cosette? Does he still live in bad neighborhoods with bad neighbors and holes in his jacket? Is he happy? Sure he’s happy. His friends are alive. Good for him, she thinks. Then wonders why she cares.

     But she's angry with Marius and she's angry at Grantaire because if they were honest, if they were brave and appreciative of the lives they have now instead of miserable about the lives they once had then Enjolras wouldn't be struggling and Combeferre wouldn't have left her and she wouldn't be alone anymore. She doesn't know Marius. She didn't know him in France and she doesn't know him now. No matter how many times she reminds herself that, she always seems to forget. And Grantaire! Grantaire who is both the cause and the solution to all of this! Grantaire she knows. She loves Grantaire and where she doesn't agree she can understand it. His fear and self-doubt, his unyielding belief that he is destined for tragedy. She wonders if he knows more than he's said, if he knows more than she does.

     It doesn't matter. She can’t insert herself into Combeferre’s life, won’t track down Marius, and has no clue where Grantaire is. He’s alive, that much she knows, but only because he’s been leaving her paintings. The last few commissions have been dropped off while she wasn’t home. Her percentage of the deals pay for law school. Grantaire knows that. As much as he’s fucked up, he wouldn’t fuck her over that severely. His heart is in the right place, she can understand that. Éponine rolls back over, blinking up at the dark ceiling. She understands it. She doesn't want to but she does. Lord knows she’s been stupider for far less. He can still fix this. He has to.

     In a few hours she’ll have to get up and, knowing it’ll be hours before she falls back asleep, Éponine simply gives up. She crawls out of bed to make herself a cup of tea, then curls up on the couch with a new book. After two chapters, she feels her eyes get heavier and after a third she falls asleep. It’s warm in her apartment despite the heavy snow outside. Her toes are cozy in thick socks, under a fuzzy blanket on her soft couch. Her stomach is full with decent food, she’s safe in her apartment in the safe neighborhood. Sometimes she’s startled at how leisurely this life can be.

     Éponine awakes with a start. The book flops to the floor and her empty tea cup rolls down her legs from where it was cradled in her hand. A second knock echoes through the silent apartment, then a third and a fourth. Each one is louder and faster than the last. She throws off the blanket and races to the door, expecting Grantaire or Gavroche and the worst possible scenarios. They both have their own keys, she reminds herself in a frantic attempt to calm her racing heart. When she finally unlocks the door, it’s not to a bleeding Gavroche or a drunk Grantaire, it's not the police or social services. Gavroche is as safe as he can be at home and when he’s not, he climbs through her window. And Grantaire is wherever he is because standing in the doorway is Combeferre

     The smell of whiskey is almost more noticeable than the tears running down his face. His one hand is wrapped in a white cast, his glasses are crooked, and his adorable floppy hair is greasy. She doesn’t think he’s showered in a few days and probably hasn’t slept in more. There are deep circles under his red eyes. He looks sick, scared, angry. The man sways on his feet, looking surprised that the door opened.

     “Hey, Ferre.” Éponine’s voice is soft, quiet in the empty hallway. His appearance is frightening, enough so to make the hair on the back of her neck rise in concern, and his sudden arrival is strange but he’s here and for that fact alone she's nearly ecstatic. She tries to keep her smile restrained, weary of his reasons. It doesn't feel like it's working. “What's going on?”

     Combeferre blinks at her. He reaches out to steady himself with a hand on the doorframe but it doesn’t seem to help his balance. “They took him," he mumbles. There's an angry clench of his jaw and a slight tremble of his lips. “They took him away from me.”

     Éponine takes his hand and tugs him gently inside. Before asking him to repeat what he slurred to her, she sets him on the couch. She sits down on the coffee table and holds his hand in both of her own. “Are you hurt?”

     He snorts. “No.”

     “What happened?”

     "He's gone." His voice cracks. A new wave of tears make his eyes even glassier. Some fall, catching in the bottom of his glasses. “He's gone. Enjolras. Enjolras is gone and I can't get him back.”

     “Gone? What do you mean he’s gone?” Grantaire’s gone but that’s okay. Grantaire knows the difference between the memories and reality. From what she understands, Enjolras is dangerous.

     “They took him!” Combeferre shouts at her. “They took him. They locked him up and I can’t get him back.” He ducks his head, resting his forehead on Éponine’s hands. For a long minute, she thinks he may have fallen asleep that way but then he suddenly flings up his head. “I couldn’t even drive him! God, Éponine. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

     “Was he arrested?”

     “No. No.” His voice grows a little softer. Anger fades to sadness. It’s a heartbreaking kind of misery, pained and helpless. “He’s at a hospital.”

     Oh. Guilt pulls Éponine’s stomach down. She can’t decide if she’d rather Enjolras actually be struggling with a mental illness or if he’s caught between the memories. If he’s sick, she wasn’t there to support Combeferre. If he’s not, she wasn’t there to catch it. She didn’t know Enjolras in Paris. He probably wouldn’t remember her, let alone believe her.

     “I can't fix this,” Combeferre whispers.

     "Okay. Okay. Sit here, okay?” She pats his cheek, then leaves to grab him a cup of water and Aspirin. He takes the pills but before he pops them in his mouth, he grabs her hand.

     “Tell me,” he pleads. The alcohol drifts off his skin in fragrant waves. With the hand in the white cast he pulls her close until their faces are only inches apart. Éponine stares down at him, awkwardly bent above the once familiar man. The anger is new and terrifying, sending chills down her spine that she's never felt in this life. “Tell me this is the right thing. Please? Tell me that this will help him, that he won't hate me forever. Please, Éponine. Please tell me it'll be okay.”

     Unable to lie to him, Éponine hesitates. She takes his face in both her hands, wiping a few tears away before answering. “If Enjolras is sick, this is the best thing for him. If he's sick, this will help him get better and he'll understand. Maybe not at first, but eventually he'll understand that you did this because you love him.”  
Combeferre’s face crumples against more tears and he drops her gaze, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. She pulls him into a close hug, tight and strong. It's an odd contrast to the shaking shoulders and the tragic, muffled sobs from Combeferre. Éponine waits until he finally falls asleep on the couch before calling Grantaire relentlessly. She has as much success as Jehan does in trying to convince Courfeyrac to come out of the bedroom.

     There’s a knock on Éponine’s door. She looks over, not sure if she wants to know who it is. Combeferre’s asleep on the couch. She watches the slow rise and fall of his chest from the arm chair, unable to sleep and unsure what to do next. Grantaire hasn’t answered his phone. Enjolras is in a mental institution. Combeferre is passed out drunk on her couch. There’s another knock and Éponine can’t ignore it. She pushes herself out of the chair, trying to steel herself for whatever may happen next. One the other side of her door stands a familiar face. She steps back in shock despite her dedicated years of preparing for this exact moment.

     Marius doesn’t seem as affected. “Where is he?”

     His voice sounds strange. It startles her out of the shock. Éponine’s lips curl in anger. Instead of answer, she punches him in the arm.

     “Ow!” Marius grabs his shoulder. Éponine punches him again, forcing him into the hallway. She hits him again and again. “Where’s Grantaire, Éponine? Ow! Stop hitting me! I’m trying to help!”

     She points a finger at him. “I don’t know! Because of you, I don’t know where he is and I don’t know how to help.

     “He’s destroying Enjolras,” Marius tells her. She scoffs and looks away, through the door to where Combeferre sleeps. A warm hand rests on her arm. She considers punching him again. “I want to help but I can’t do anything without Grantaire. Enjolras won’t believe me. I need to know where Grantaire is. He can fix this.

     “I don’t know. I kicked him out because of the little plan you and he hatched to keep Enjolras from knowing the truth.” Éponine turns to glare at him. “This is on you as much as it’s on him.”

     “Me?” He looks truly frightened by the accusation.

     “Yes. This is your fault! Why didn't you tell him? Why didn't you help him?”

     “Grantaire begged me not to. Believe me, if I knew this is what would happen I wouldn't had agreed to it! But I promised Grantaire.” Marius reaches for her hand, holding it in both of his own. “I think there's something more to this, Ponine. I think he loves Enjolras.

     Éponine blinks at him. “Of course he loves Enjolras.”

     “No, I mean he loves Enjolras. Like loves loves him.” He squeezes her hand to emphasize his point.

     “Of course they love each other,” she snaps. “They’ve always loved each other.”

     Marius looks at her, tilting his head and considering the comment, then smiles softly. He nods and looks down at their intertwined hands. “Okay. So what do we do then?”

     She takes a step back, forcing him to let go of her hand. “I don’t know."

     His face falls as if she had convinced him that this new life was just a cruel joke. For Enjolras, perhaps, it is. Marius looks into the apartment, staring at Combeferre for a long moment. “So there’s nothing? We do nothing?”

     “I don’t think we can do anything. Grantaire is the one he’s looking for, right? So it’s Grantaire who can fix this. And I don’t even know if he can do that at this point.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Éponine takes a deep breath, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She’s no authority on the subject. “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe it’s harder for him. Maybe he really is sick.”

     “He’s not sick. Jesus!” His voice raises, causing Éponine to jump. She’s never heard him angry. “It’s Enjolras!”

     “That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Éponine tells him quickly.

     Marius licks his bottom lip. “He’s stronger than this, Ponine. All the stuff he’s talked about, everything he’s said is real. It happened or they existed. Grantaire can fix this.”

     “What if that’s not an easy solution? What if Grantaire can’t just make things better? What if Enjolras is caught between the memories?"

     “Is that what’s happening?”

     “Jesus I don’t know, Marius. I’ve literally never met him. I’m not an expert. I hope Grantaire can get his shit together and fix this and then we all laugh about it in a few weeks.” She runs her hands through her long hair, then shrugs. Éponine looks away from Marius, over to her sleeping boyfriend. Boyfriend? She’ll be optimistic and call him her boyfriend. Using the chance, she wipes a tear away from her eye. “Did you find her?” she asks softly. “Did you find Cosette?"

     “Yeah.” Without looking, she knows the stupid, dreamy smile he has. “We met a couple years ago. We moved in together right before Enjolras started getting weird.”

     “Good. Good for you guys.” She steps into the apartment, her hand on the door. “Okay well, let me know if you find him. Tell him I’m going to kick his ass. And that I love him.”

     The smile he gives her is soft and sad. A familiar warmth spreads in her chest. Éponine returns it with the softest hint of a smile, then closes the door and curls up on the couch with her boyfriend.

———————————————————————————————————————

     “Thank you for the ride,” Combeferre says. It’s soft and quiet but it seems to rumble in the silent car. Jean Valjean only nods, giving Combeferre a reassuring smile before focusing back on the road. Courfeyrac doesn’t have his license and Combeferre is too hung-over to drive. This isn’t the first time Valjean’s had to drive nor will it be the last, given Combeferre’s new method of putting himself to sleep. They’ve already had to pull over twice because he thought he was going to throw up. Thankfully he didn't and the frigid air has helped clear his mind of the whisky-induced foggy haze. “We really appreciate the help you’ve given us through this.”

     Before Valjean can respond, Courfeyrac speaks up from the backseat. He has his head against the cold window, drawing shapes when his breath fogs the glass. “We better be able to see him this time.”

     Combeferre rubs his eyes under his glasses. “He broke the rules,” he reminds Courfeyrac. “He knows what happens when he does that."

     “Calling our friend to make sure he’s okay shouldn’t be breaking the rules,” is Courfeyrac’s immediate response. He draws a triangle, then gives it eyes. Valjean watches him in the rearview mirror.

     “He broke a door, broke into the offices, and punched a guard all because he was indulging an hallucination.” Combeferre turns around to face his friend. This is the third time Enjolras has done this and the third time Combeferre has had to explain it to Courfeyrac. Each time it gets easier to say, more natural and that’s terrifying. “Jehan is fine. Jehan will be fine. If he would take the fucking medication, he wouldn’t wake up thinking his friend was killed by the National Guard of a country he’s never been to.”

     Courfeyrac doesn’t lift his head off the window but he shifts his gaze from the fading triangle to glare at Combeferre. “What harm can some reassurance do?”

     “You’re indulging him. He's more likely to believe it next time."

     "I’m comforting him,” Courfeyrac corrects. “He was scared, Combeferre. It may have been started by a hallucination but he was truly, honestly terrified to the point of trying to break out to save his friend. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he’s never that scared again.”

     With a frustrated sigh, Combeferre turns back around in his seat. “I’m just trying to help him through this,” he explains softly. “I just want him home.”

     “We all do,” Courfeyrac snaps. The car falls quiet again.

     When they arrive at the facility Courfeyrac is out of the car before it stops. He runs inside, slipping three times on the icy parking lot. Enjolras is sitting in a plastic chair near the window. His hands tremble in his lap and even from across the room Courfeyrac can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. Courfeyrac shouts his name. They collide in the middle of the waiting room in tight, tearful embrace that is carefully watched by an orderly standing nearby. Combeferre waits his turn with the patience from the false calm he’s continuing to force himself into.

     Visiting hours are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Because he broke into the offices to call Jehan on Tuesday, it’s been almost a week since they last saw him. The hugs are tighter and longer than normal. Courfeyrac chokes on an emotional sob during his hug and Combeferre steps back after his but keeps a hand on Enjolras’s arm, refusing to lose the connection. Courfeyrac’s holding Enjolras’s hand. They will keep the physical connection until they are forced to leave the building. When they leave without Enjolras. The car will be silent as both Courfeyrac and Combeferre fight against violent waves of tears.

     “Good afternoon, Enjolras,” Valjean says as he shakes his hand. As soon as they let go, Enjolras steps back between his best friends, leaning a little against Combeferre’s shoulder. “I’m going to speak with your doctor, if that’s alright. Is there anything you’d like me to ask or find out for you?”

     Enjolras shakes his head before changing his mind. He takes half a step forward. “Can I go home?”

     “You have seven more weeks left in your mandatory stay. Then your case will be reviewed. There’s nothing more I can do about the timeline.” Jean Valjean squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

     “What about the tremors? Is there anything you can give him for that?” Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras’s hand as he asks.

     Combeferre wraps a hand around the back of Enjolras’s neck. “It’s better than the nausea.”

     They continue to discuss something as Enjolras has to remind himself that this is a good thing. His hands shake because of the medicine he’s given. The memories he has are not memories but hallucinations. Grantaire isn’t real. His face crumples as a cold sadness swells in his chest and he falls against Courfeyrac’s chest, knowing his friend will wraps his arms around him. His hands shake because he’s getting better. His friends leave because he’s getting better. He’s here because he’s sick and he needs to get better because the memories are not memories at all but hallucinations.

     When they have to leave, he’s escorted back to his small room. The walls are beige, the bed is beige, the desk and dresser are beige. The window has fogged glass to keep him safe from himself. That's their favorite word. They aren't keeping him locked inside, they're keeping him safe. The medicine may make him drowsy and dizzy, it makes his hands tremble and it may be altering his entire personality but it's making him safe. He hates the pills but now he's taking them. He takes them everyday at seven in the morning because they keep telling him he can go home if they help. The memories haven't stopped. /Hallucinations. Hallucinations because they are not real. He takes the medicine because it will help with the hallucinations. It will keep him safe and get him home because he is sick and he needs to get better.

     He lies on the beige bed and stares up at the beige ceiling. Tears run down his cheeks, landing on his pillow under his ears. The door opens but he doesn't look away from that one spot on the ceiling. When he tilts his head to the side it kind of looks like a star. That might not even be real. Yet the doctor's excited words pass through his mind. _Your delusions are consistent_. Enjolras guess that that means the spot on the wall is probably real but the blood on his hands isn't. The scars on his chest aren't really there but the ones on his feet are, even though he remembers those eight bullets but doesn't remember how he got the ones on his feet. He can smell the gunpowder. He can always smell the gunpowder. It’s stronger than the blood.

     “I’m not hungry,” he tells whatever orderly or doctor that’s here to berate him. _You need to eat. You need to sleep. Stop taking swings at the orderlies. Stop yelling about the National Guard._ He’s doing everything he has to do to get better and get home but that doesn’t mean he has to be polite about it.

     “Apollo?” The voice is familiar. Only one person calls him that so Enjolras shuts his eyes. The sound of the door closing fills the room, then nothing. A minute goes by. Or an hour, Enjolras isn't sure. Time has lost significance. He lives between the years until Combeferre and Courfeyrac can visit again. When he’s brave enough to open his eyes, he glares at the man sitting at his beige desk. Grantaire smiles uncertainly. His hair seems shorter than the last time Enjolras spoke to him. His eyes are clear and his teeth are straight. His nose is slightly upturned in a way Enjolras has never seen it. He wants to run his finger down the straight line. Grantaire crinkles his straight, slightly upturned nose a little. He looks painfully apologetic. “I'm sorry it took me so long to get here,” he says. “I had trouble forging the ID card. They have pretty impressive security.”

     “You're not real,” Enjolras states as he turns back to stare at the ceiling.

     “I know what you've been told but I also know you know who I am.”

     “Knowing who you are doesn't make you real.”

     “Don't let the religious fanatics hear you say that,” Grantaire jokes. Enjolras closes his eyes shut, willing the delusion away. He isn't sure if he's annoyed, scared, or grateful when Grantaire speaks again. “You're not asleep.”

     “I don't have to be asleep to see you. Otherwise I wouldn't be in here.” He looks back to Grantaire, jaw set and eyes sharp but tired. The joy in seeing Grantaire is overrun by the fact that it means the medications aren't working. If the medicines don't work, it's only a matter of time before he freaks out again and is given that dreadful shot. He’s not sure why he has to be restrained when sedated, it seems rather redundant, but there is nothing more terrifying than waking up and not being able to move. “You are a figment of my mental disorder. Leave me alone.”

     “You're not sick.”

     “You're not real.”

     They fall quiet. Grantaire taps his thumbs together and Enjolras stares at the spot on the ceiling.

     “I’m sorry I slept through your rebellion,” Grantaire says softly. He looks down at his hands and scratches at the red paint on his palm. All he can paint is Enjolras. After scratching so hard at the paint he’s close to breaking the skin. He doesn't need a physical reminder of how badly he has fucked up. He doesn’t need another scar to remember Enjolras. There isn't a moment that goes by that he doesn't know he's responsible for this. The only reason he hasn’t drank himself into a grave yet is because he’s the only one who may be able to fix it. There’s some irony in that.

     “I’m sorry it killed you,” Enjolras responds in a similar tone. He doesn't really want Grantaire to leave. Not when the man is here, speaking to him in English. Enjolras won't mind being locked up if it means his visions of Grantaire become more peaceful, more familiar. The smiles in a dimly lit cafe aren't real. Smiles in a mental hospital could be more believable though. Heavy tears slide down his cheeks. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to be so disappointed.

     “I begged to stay.”

     In a sudden decision, Enjolras sits up with the determination that leads to confrontation. He can’t miss Courfeyrac and Combeferre again. They are real. Grantaire isn’t real. At least his delusion will know he's angry. “You're not real! Go away.”

     “Do you really want me to?” Grantaire asks quietly. He waits for an answer, ready to do whatever Enjolras asks of him.

     “No.” He shakes his head and looks down at his beige sheets. This is exactly what he has been asking for. For Grantaire. And this feels different. The conversations he has with Grantaire are scripted, it’s reliving memories instead of moments created. He's never talked to Grantaire about his illness or delusions. Only about revolutions and their friends, about Paris and her streets, about philosophy and gods and the fate of man. Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek. “Are you real?” he asks in a whisper, frightened of the answer.

     “You just told me I'm not.”

     Enjolras looks at him with the taste of blood in his mouth. “You’ve never worn scrubs before so either I'm getting even more creative with my schizophrenic delusions or this is something different. You look real but you've looked real before, like at the train station and across from my apartment. Both times you were incredibly vivid. Like now. I could reach out and touch you, unlike some of the memories- hallucinations,” he’s quick to correct himself. “People are telling me you aren't real. Everyone is telling me you aren’t real. Combeferre told me I created you out of a need for salvation. Find you and I find the peace I'm looking for. You are the answer to my violent hallucinations brought on by unknown stressors and a mental illness. A fictitious cure to an unbalanced brain. I'm inclined to believe Combeferre on matters as serious as this.”

     Grantaire waits patiently until Enjolras is finished. “Combeferre doesn’t lie.”

     A strangled pain tightens in the back of Enjolras’s throat. “So you’re not real.”

     “No, I’m real. You’re real. Combeferre’s real. Everything you’re experiencing is real.”

     “That doesn’t make sense. I’m schizophrenic. I’m seeing and hearing things that are not real.”

     "Is the medication helping?”

     Enjolras closes his eyes. Tears roll down his cheeks. The strangled feeling tightens more, threatening to suffocate him. “I didn’t not lead a failed rebellion in 1832 against the King of France,” he repeats. “I didn't not kill my friends. They are alive, happy, and free. I am twenty-five years old, not two hundred years old.”

     “You're twenty-five in this life,” Grantaire agrees. “How old were you for the French rebellion?”

     “That's not real.”

     “You were younger. Only twenty-two. Right?”

     “No.” Enjolras opens his eyes. He blinks a few times to clear his vision. Grantaire is looking at him, patient and sincere. It’s an oddly gentle look. He sees Grantaire lying on a mattress, begging Enjolras to stay with that particular look. He sees it on Grantaire’s face as he asks permission to join his side, to die at his side. “That's not real.”

     “But for the Civil War you were older. Nearly twenty-seven!” He laughs like he’s always surprised by that fact. It ends in a thoughtful sigh and Enjolras feels himself smile. It’s a small, sad twitch of his mouth. “That's the oldest I remember you being,” Grantaire continues. “I was thirty-one. We were old men. They had the luxury of training us. The American Revolution though, you were barely twenty.”

     “I lied to join the resistance,” Enjolras adds as an explanation. He stares at Grantaire as flashes of a gray uniform cross his mind. A musket and a knife, a flag and a brown horse painted so it blends into the northeastern forests. A call for freedom rises in his chest, nearly escaping. Grantaire's in their tent reciting the Declaration of Independence with a smirk as he walks towards him. Enjolras smiles.

     “And they gave you your own battalion after a year.” Grantaire sounds so proud.

     Enjolras stumbles off the bed and begins pacing the short length of the room. “If I hadn't lied, if I hadn't been promoted so quickly then I might have seen them coming. I should have seen them coming.”

     “We were desperate. England was strong.”

     "They didn't hold out for another year after we died!” Enjolras shouts. “And in France? They don't even remember us, R!"

     “You remember.” Grantaire stands up but keeps his distance. “I remember.”

     "No. No this doesn't make sense!”

     "You remember, don't you? All of them. Just like I do. Éponine only remembers France. I’m pretty sure it’s the same Marius.”

     He covers his face in his hands. “No. No I didn't fight in any war. I am not a soldier. I didn't rebel against any king. I am a consultant at a law firm. I am twenty-five years old. I did not kill my friends. I did not kill them."

     “I liked fighting the Civil War,” Grantaire interrupts, louder than Enjolras’s repetitive rant. “That one felt pretty clear cut."

     “You're crazy.” Enjolras points at Grantaire. He takes an aggressive step towards him. “If you are real then you're crazier than I am.” He sees a blue uniform. He presses his palms against his eyes, torn between willing it away and trying to understand it. There’s mud under his feet, a cold winter chill in the air. The uniform isn’t his but Combeferre’s, with gold buttons and a little hat. He's carrying his doctors kit around over his shoulder and indulging Joly by checking the back of his throat. A dense fog covers the field around them. There's no sight line into the trees. A chill runs down his spine. Before he can yell for his small group of men to prepare, Grantaire's voice cuts through the drums.

     “Reincarnation doesn’t explain this?”

     The memory fades. “I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

     “Huh.” Grantaire sits back in his chair, studying the man across from him. His hands tremble no matter how tightly he wrings them together and the blue eyes never stay on Grantaire longer than a few seconds at a time. To Grantaire’s horror, he sounds defeated. In all of the memories there has never been a more terrifying sound. Not cannons, screams, or the silence of death.

     Enjolras narrows his eyes. “What?”

     “I think this is the first time you are the one that doesn’t believe. I have never had a valid belief to explain to you.”

     “If reincarnation was the explanation then I would’ve been a king’s throne in my life after the rebellion.” He sinks to the edge of the bed and stares at the wall. “Or Combeferre’s gravestone.”

     “That was dark,” Grantaire comments.

     “Mental illnesses take their toll,” he explains dryly without looking at Grantaire.

     “You’re not sick.”

     “You’re not real.”

     “I am real.” Grantaire leans forward on the chair, then scoots it a few inches closer. “You’re real. Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Marius. They’re all real. We died in 1832. We've died before and we've died after, Apollo. Who knows how many lives we’ve lived. What we remember is only the last two hundred years. Who knows who we have been! But I know one thing for certain and it’s that you never stop fighting! So why aren’t you fighting this? Why are you so willing to believe them?”

     “Because you’re not with me!” he yells as he stands up. Tears run down his cheeks, red with anger. “In every nightmare there is blood and death but it is so much better than reality because at least you’re with me! You’re at my side with your hand in mine. I squeeze it and you return it and it’s everything unspoken between us. I am not alone in death but I’m alone in this!”

     The chair knocks over as Grantaire stumbles to his feet. “I’m sorry. I'm sorry! I thought that maybe you wouldn't remember, that you'd get past it and live the life you had before. I- I,” he stumbles on his words, forcing himself to confess. He swallows, his hands shaking. “I was scared. That I wouldn't have a place. That you wouldn't want me to have a place. We fight and we die together but this time we weren’t together and you weren’t fighting. Not like before. You didn't need me there.” He quickly wipes his nose with the back of his hand but ignores the tears. “You were happy.”

     “I was alone,” Enjolras corrects him through clenched teeth.

     They fall quiet. Enjolras sits back on the bed. He looks up every few seconds to study Grantaire's face before dropping the gaze again. Grantaire never looks away. For a long stretch of time the only sound in the room is their heavy breathing and the occasional sniffs.

     It’s Grantaire who finally breaks the silence. His voice is soft, cautious. He’s still not convinced that Enjolras won’t send him away. “I remember those boots you gave me. You never told me that they were sent from your parents or that your own were filled with holes. If we had survived, you would have lost your foot to frostbite, no doubt.” He laughs. “Those boots were the best damn boots money could buy. But it didn’t matter because I’ve never felt colder than that winter in Virginia with our thin, blue uniforms and those ridiculous hats."

     “You used to recite the Declaration of Independence to me,” Enjolras says wistfully. His eyes, puffy from crying, blink slowly at the wall he’s staring at.

     “And you believed it was truly to end slavery,” laughs Grantaire.

     “It was to save a country.”

     He nods, giving Enjolras a small smile. “I will always be your mistress to a nation.”

     Enjolras stands up again. This time there’s nothing aggressive about his stance. His movements are slow and methodical. He pulls in a deep breath that’s cut off by a choked sob. A long moment passes before he regains enough composure to speak. “Why do we continue to do this then? Continue to give our lives for the sake of humanity? It is the definition of insanity. We bleed for martyred legacies.” He bites his thumbnail, then looks at Grantaire. “Are we marked to do this forever?”

     “Do not pride yourself on thinking you do this out of vanity,” Grantaire says with a smirk. Something shifts in Enjolras’s face as a sharp anger lights up his eyes. It brings Grantaire to his feet. “You will always fight.”

     “I am killing! Fighting implies we have a chance to succeed.”

     “We will always have the next life.” He takes a few steps closer, smiling a little. Grantaire can feel Enjolras leaning towards him, can feel the heat under his hand. The closer he gets, the warmer he feels but it’s not enough to allow him the confidence of reaching out for him. “Who knows which country you’ll fall for then.”

     Enjolras shakes his head. “I won’t do this anymore.”

     “You say it as if you have a choice.”

     “You don’t believe I do?”

     Grantaire doesn’t answer because _no_. No he doesn’t believe Enjolras can just step away from this. They can’t forget the memories, they can’t forget the lives they had but most importantly Enjolras can’t change the fact that he fights. He burns for people, for his nation, which ever one that maybe, and that isn’t something you can just turn your back on.

     “I will not continue to kill my family.” Enjolras puts his hands on his hips with a set determination. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac are already saving people. They are doing good in the world and I have no right to decide their lives are better served as sacrifices.”

     “So what are you going to do?” Grantaire had prepared to pull Enjolras back, not to convince him to fight. He’s out of his depth here. Shocked, hurt, and guilty because had he stepped up early this conversation might not be happening.

     “Stay here. I’ll get better. They can still visit me.” He pauses to cover his mouth with a trembling hand, swallowing down the sudden sobs. “They can all visit. We can write letters. I think I had phone rights that I lost and if I behave maybe I can get those back. They’ll be safe.”

     “You’re going to stay locked up here?” Grantaire finally raises his voice. His place in this world is to follow Enjolras. He’s never led, he’s never wanted to. Whatever the cause, whatever the fight he will find the flaws and doubts in it but never in Enjolras. Enjolras is steadfast, Enjolras digs his heels in. Enjolras can do more in this life with a semi-successful blog than anything they managed before. Imagine what he could do if he had control of a massive social movement! It wouldn’t be hard, not for Enjolras, especially with Combeferre and Courfeyrac helping. But he can’t do anything locked in a muted room that takes three different security codes to get to. He throws his hands up in a dramatic fashion, then steps forward and presses them together, pleading. “Enjolras, this isn’t the nineteenth century. We don’t have to fight the National Guard if we want to take a stand. We don’t have to sacrifice ourselves. We have mass communication and nonviolent protesters, the internet literally in our hands. We can Gandhi the shit out of this place!"

     “I always fight, you said so yourself. I don’t know how to do anything else. Whether I try to or not, I always end up fighting. Look at me! This is what I do when I think I’m losing my mind. What will happen now? When I know what we’re capable of doing, who will I bring down with me this time?”

     “So you’re just going to stay locked up here? That’s it, that’s your plan?”

     He takes the time to consider it. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I can’t hurt anyone in here. They can still visit me. I won’t lose them.” He looks at Grantaire, then glances away as he softly adds, “I can still see you.”

     Grantaire curls his hands into tight fists. He steps forward and takes Enjolras’ face in both of his hands, forcing the man to look at him. “What is this but giving up?”

     “It’s ending the violent cycle.”

     “Assuming it works.”

     “Assuming it doesn’t we will only find ourselves here again.” He shrugs and sighs in that exhausted, defeated way.

     The anger in Grantaire’s chest is not an unfamiliar feeling but his target certainly is. Enjolras wants to stay locked away in the honorable name of protecting his friends and Grantaire shakes with fear that he doesn’t have a place at Enjolras’s side, which is true if Enjolras stays in a mental institution. Enjolras is being a self-righteous idiot and Grantaire is being selfish. Not that much has changed. He steps back and pokes Enjolras in the chest. “This is just you once again martyring yourself.”

     “How so?” Enjolras questions with a short, disbelieving laugh.

     “You’re locking yourself up to save everyone else.”

     “That’s not martyring myself. That’s protecting them.”

     “By sacrificing yourself, you idiot! Locking yourself away from them is going to kill them. It’s not necessary. You’re being overly dramatic.”

     Enjolras tilts his head to look at him, his eyes flashing in thought. The tight constricting in his throat is easy to see, his palm presses against the middle of his chest as the panic builds. It’s less calm, less stoic than he’s ever been. Grantaire can’t decide if he likes the way his emotions shift over his face, easy to read and even easier to understand. It would be nice if the emotion was embarrassment or infatuation but right now the fear is heartbreaking. “How would it kill them?”

     “Emotionally, E,” Grantaire clarifies, realizing _kill_ probably wasn’t the right word. He didn’t anticipate this much fight. They’re together. Their friends are alive. Life can move on, back to what it was before but this time Grantaire can be by his side. Everything will be right. Everything can be alright. This shouldn’t be this hard to see, to understand, to believe- especially for Enjolras. What could have possibly happen in the last few months to make Enjolras seem this broken? To make that life feel so out of reach? For someone as historically idealistic as Enjolras, who believed eight students, an old man, and a boy could start a revolution, this doesn’t make sense. “They’ll hate you for it,” Grantaire explains, “they’ll hate me for it, and they’ll hate themselves for it. You being locked in here would mean you’re not really in their lives. They need you. I need you, Apollo.”

     Enjolras closes the gap between them and grabs a fistful of Grantaire’s scrubs. “I knew it, R,” he whispers. His breath is warm on Grantaire’s face and for the moment Grantaire can’t focus on anything except how close their lips are. “I knew what we needed and I knew the exact moment we weren’t going to get it. I couldn’t leave, Grantaire. I believed, Grantaire, and I couldn’t leave and I know I won’t leave now. Combeferre and Courfeyrac didn’t leave the barricades and just as before, they won’t leave me now. I won’t let them believe me again only to watch them die in a riot that I started!”

     “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine, E,” he laughs a little. Grantaire pulls Enjolras’ hand off of his shirt and holds it in both of his own, running his thumbs over Enjolras’ scarred knuckles. “We can handle that. We’ll be careful when we protest, we’ll make sure everything is legal. We’ll watch each others backs. We can even have safe words, like we all yell flamingo when shit hits the fan and everyone knows to head back to the apartment. We can live in this world, together, without sacrificing our lives, Apollo.”

     He lets go of Enjolras’ hand to grab his neck and pulls him close to press their foreheads together. Tears roll down Enjolras’ cheeks. His bottom lip trembles. A quiet minute passes where he stares at Grantaire’s shoes. He takes half a step back but doesn’t pull away for another minute. When he does step back, he seems reluctant to lose contact. “I can’t.” Enjolras roughly wipes the tears from his face. “I can’t.”

     “Why not? Why is this so hard to believe, Enjolras?”

     Enjolras bites his nail. He looks at the door, then to his bleeding thumb. When he answers it’s in such a soft whisper that Grantaire has to step forward to hear. “Because I don’t know when it’s a memory.”

     “What?”

     “I don’t know when it’s a memory.”

     “What do you mean?”  “France. The Rebellion.” He rubs his hands over his face, then pushes back his hair. “I can’t tell when it’s real. I mean now I know it’s not real. I mean it is real but it’s a not really happening because it’s a memory. I know that.” He looks up at Grantaire to make sure he’s following the inarticulate explanation and doesn’t continue until Grantaire nods his understanding. “But when I remember it, when I see it I’m there. It’s like I get stuck in the memory. I wake up and I can hear Jehan on the other side of the barricade. The phone rings and I jump, thinking it’s a gun. I can feel the heat of the fire and I can smell the gunpowder. I can feel the force of the bullets, R.” He stares at Grantaire for a long moment, memorizing the shape of his nose, his round blue eyes, the two indents from his front teeth where he bit his bottom lip. “I almost don’t want you to be real,” he confesses in a low tone, “because then it means I really did kill them. And if you’re not real, then I can get better.”

     A silent beat passes. Grantaire bites his lip, then licks it before lunging at Enjolras. He takes the man’s face in his hands and kisses him fiercely. Enjolras kisses him back immediately. His hands grab a hold of Grantaire’s shirt and pull him closer. Grantaire parts without pushing him away. Breathless, he brushes his nose to Enjolras’s, then rests their foreheads together. “I’m real and I’m not leaving.” He kisses the man again. “Let me be there with you, at your side, and I’ll remind you. I will keep you here. Let me give our friends that. Let me give them you.”

     Enjolras pulls away to argue but Grantaire doesn’t let him.

     “I slept through the rebellion! Fuck, I slept through everything,” Grantaire closes his eyes as he shouts. “I owe you. I owe our friends. If not for me, if not for yourself or those you could save, let me give them this. Let me give them you. I can keep you safe. I can keep them safe. Okay? Believe me, please. I can do this. Let me prove it to you that we are capable of living so much more and so much longer without sacrificing our blood to save others. We can have a life together, Enjolras.”

     “I can’t have both,” Enjolras whispers. He closes his eyes but the tears continue to fall. Is there progress without some measure of sacrifice? Is there not punishment for murder through the years? Can you kill but not murder? He grips Grantaire’s wrist hard enough to leave red marks. “I can’t have you and my friends and change the world and live happily. I don’t deserve that.”

     Grantaire pushes Enjolras back so he force eye contact but before he can promise Enjolras that he deserves that and so much more the man steps away. He puts several feet between them, standing by the door as he bites his thumbnail. Grantaire glances anxiously at the clock on the wall encased with thin metal bars. It’s almost time for group therapy. When Enjolras doesn’t show up someone will be here to escort him down. It’s mandatory unless he has a medical excuse signed off by a doctor. Grantaire learned everything he could about the place, picked his timing so they’d have the longest chunk together. It’s not enough time.

     Enjolras looks at him. “I don’t want to kill anymore.”

     “You don’t have to,” Grantaire promises him.

     He bites his lip. His thumb is turning red and raw. “I remember more about Paris than I do about my life now.”

     “We can make cheatsheets to help you keep track of it.” To Grantaire it’s an easy solution. Swimming across the ocean is an easy solution if it means they will be together.

     “Are you going to leave me?” he asks suddenly, then waits patiently to accept the answer he's expecting. He’s calm, looking at Grantaire without any fear or anxiety. There’s a plan. Grantaire can see it forming. Stronger than the anger over the fact that Enjolras feels like he has to even ask him that is the fear of what that plan may be.

     “Never,” Grantaire answers immediately. “Never. But you know I can't stay here, right? The security is incredible tight and efficient. I'll be back, I promise. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll figure out how to get you out. If you want. If you want I'll come back everyday until I figure out how to stay. But if you want I'll leave and never come back again.”

     Enjolras sprints towards him, closing the distance between them quicker than Grantaire anticipates and tackles him to the floor. He buries his head in Grantaire's neck, takes a deep breath, smelling the familiar musk and tobacco, paint and sweat that's all Grantaire. It’s the first smell that’s stronger than gunpowder.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


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